


Ferzia

by FujinoLover



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-04-26 07:46:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4996408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FujinoLover/pseuds/FujinoLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Constable Shaw of Thornhill had a mission. No one warned her that it involved a devastatingly attractive lady, who was more than just a little crazy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Ferzia_ is the term used in an early twelfth-century Latin poem to refer to a queened pawn in chess. In Russia, up until the end of eighteenth-century, the queen ( _ferz_ ) could also move like a knight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baron/Baroness: Tenants-in-chief who served as a member of the ruler's great council.
> 
> Justiciar: the head of the royal judicial system and the ruler’s viceroy when the real ruler is unavailable.
> 
> Chancellor: the ruler’s secretary or notary who is responsible for the royal government dealing with domestic and foreign affairs.
> 
> Grandmaster: the head of the military order of knighthood.
> 
> Constable: the commander of all armed forces, especially in the absence of the ruler.
> 
> Groom of the stool: a man in whom much confidence and secrets are shared by his royal master.
> 
> Destrier: war horse.

The council demanded for another marriage. While Shaw didn’t care about politics, she did, in her own ways, care about her friends. It was obvious that Harold fretted over such idea since he requested for Reese’s and her presence right after the meeting. Thus Shaw, complete in her black war coat and scimitar hanging on her leather belt, was sitting on the floor of Harold’s bedchamber. The smell of tea was too strong.

“What did Joss say about it?”

“Lady Carter is the one who suggested the idea in the first place. Only Baron Marcus voted against it.”

“You can out rule them, Harold,” Shaw said.

It broke the back-and-forth motion Harold had been doing for the last couple of minutes. He stared down at her with hardened look she was so familiar with. “We’re trying to change into a more democratic government, Lady Shaw.”

Shaw flinched. Throughout the entire kingdom, the king happened to be the only one insisting on using her proper title. Although he always ensured he didn’t do so in public and addressed her by her rank as she preferred to bear the same standing as the other knights instead of being a dame.

“I can’t just override a decision because I don’t like it. Besides...” He looked over to where Reese was standing on the balcony, seventeen months old toddler with wild golden mane on his arm. Harold couldn’t help but smile at the view. “They’re right. Genrika does need a mother figure.”

Between the three of them, Shaw was sure the little princess would grow up just fine. Harold would teach her everything she needed to rule their kingdom. Reese would train her in swordsmanship. Shaw would see to it that Genrika received the best education possible.

Also, there were other people too. Justiciar Carter was the stern parental figure Genrika feared and looked up at, when she was not too busy sorting the remaining mess from war. There was Reese’s on and off married lover, Chancellor Morgan, who travelled too much and stayed too short. And last was Genrika’s favorite, Grandmaster Fusco. Where they were lacking, there was where the nannies and governess supposed to fill in and they had plenty of those around already. They were a mess, Shaw admitted, but Genrika would never be short on love. There was no need to bring in another woman to play as her mother.

“Who did they suggest, Harold?” Reese had joined them back. Once he put Genrika down, the princess ran off to Shaw to tackle her in a messy hug. “I hope it’s not our lady here.” He snickered at the death glare Shaw was giving him.

“Oh, no, no.” Harold’s quick interjection of the idea turned him as the new receiving end of the angry stare. “As the constable, Lady Shaw has to be ready at any moment to lead our knights and army shall another war arises.”

It was the bitter truth. The war three years back had left Harold with a spinal injury that impaired his gait forever. He was no longer fitting to ride a horse, let alone leading in war. Reese stood-in for him until the late Queen Grace passed away during childbirth. He resigned his position then, and took a new vow of protecting Harold and Genrika as the groom of the stool, while Shaw took over for him.

Looking back at the past, their kingdom did become more liberal after the war. The church and state turned blind-eye towards the women whose husbands were lost in battle and decided to raise their children together as domestic partners. The kingdom had allowed Lords’ daughters to take knighthood long ago, giving them the same title as their male counterparts, but it wasn’t until Shaw that they had a real lady acting as knight in front of public. Perhaps change was not so bad after all.

“Who are the candidates?” Shaw asked, resigned. A realization then hit her and she narrowed her eyes at Harold. “Not the young ladies, I hope.”

Harold made a disgusted face. “No. They had agreed on one candidate, Lady Groves from the east.”

Both Reese and Shaw furrowed their brows. “There is a Lady Groves?” Reese asked. “I thought the old Lord Groves died in war.”

“It was unclear, but his son inherited the title and castle. He too had unfortunately passed away soon after his marriage to Lady Groves. She has taken over the castle ever since.”

Reese looked at Shaw, who shrugged back. “Never met her.”

“With no heir to the name and since the area was far on our border with Samaritan, the council decided that it’ll be in everyone’s interest for unison through marriage.” Harold patted his daughter’s hair, his expression somber. “Therefore, Lady Shaw, there’s a favor I’d like to ask you.”

Shaw rolled her eyes at Harold’s phrasing. It didn’t matter how he spelled it out, she couldn’t refuse anyway. She had an idea of what the favor would be. “Pickin’ up your bride?”

“A potential candidate, if you please.”

“Same difference,” Shaw said as she got back to her feet. Genrika squealed at her cape, circling around her until she was dizzy and Reese had to scoop her up. “When do I leave?” She reached out to fix Genrika’s hair, the motion a bit awkward, but the child gave a winning grin nonetheless.

“By dawn.”

 

* * *

 

The Groves Castle lay on the far east of Thornhill kingdom, a wide stream separating it from Samaritan’s land. It was their front line of defense, should Samaritan decide to end their already shaky pact of peace and try to conquer Thornhill. It took one day to reach the castle, but for the sake of appearances, Shaw was ‘requested’ of several things that put the journey slower. The best horse-drawn carriage along with two foot-soldiers, all for a few days of stay in the castle and even fewer dates. Shaw was thankful she got out of the life of nobility before she learned how to spell the word.

Shaw had made acquaintance of the Groves’ knights—as the administrative part of her job as the constable required her to oversee their kingdom’s army—yet she never met the lady of the castle herself. Thus her opinion of Harold’s future spouse and his whole arranged marriage remained neutral for the time being. As long as it was something her king wanted, then it was not her place to interfere.

By the time the sun set, Shaw had ordered the troop to rest. They were lucky to find a tavern on the side of the road, just on the skirt of the woods, and she was more than glad to get out of her full body armor. They would reach the castle before noon if they left before the first ray of sun broke over the horizon next morning. As it was unwise to travel through the forest at night, there was no rush.

After freshening up and dressed in a simple black tunic, Shaw joined her men downstairs. Unlike the first time she entered the bar earlier, the patrons didn’t cower in fear at her presence. With no metal chest plate bearing their kingdom’s insignia, she was just an odd woman in a bar full of drunken men. They leered, catcalling, and throwing offensive remarks that shamed Shaw’s men into silence on their table. The treatment continued until she laid a hand on the hilt of her scimitar, bringing attention to the weapon and the crest decorating it, and then they too fell into silence. Shaw couldn’t help but smirk to herself. At least this time she didn’t need to knock out some thugs and add a dent on her personal expenses for ruining yet another bar in order to prove a point.

A chorused ‘grilled beef steak’ from her men answered her question of the best choice of food available. Right on cue, the barmaid came with plates full of food and more drinks. The men cheered before they dug in. Dinner was done in minutes—the army trained them well to eat fast and be ready in case of surprise attack. The coachman, an old gentleman with white beard and kind eyes, had just started his tale of war when Shaw excused herself to check on her destrier, Indigo. She bid them a good night, walking out of the tavern and to the small barn the owner used to keep guests’ horses. A carrot she obtained from the cook in hand.

Around the corner, she ran into someone. Her muttered apology met grunted acknowledgement as the cloaked figure walked away. Shaw thought it was quite odd for a commoner to wear perfume, but paid no further attention to it. That was until she was in the barn, reaching for her hunting knife to cut the carrot and found its leather sheath strapped empty on her hip.

Shaw rushed out of the dark building before her mind could catch up. She was sure the person she had run into earlier was the one who stole her knife. The sentimental value it held was much bigger than its price. It was her grandfather’s, then her father’s, and then hers after he passed away in a hunting accident. She swore she would give the little thief a lesson once she found them.

What she didn’t expect, however, was to find them waiting right outside the barn. The thief leaned on the wall, playing with her knife. They didn’t move away when Shaw marched up to them, grabbing the cloak and slammed them back without wasting any time. The hood fell off and Shaw quirked a brow at the woman in front of her.

“Looking for this—“ The woman raised the knife, its blade glinting under the low light of the moon. She didn’t stop smiling, as though she knew something Shaw didn’t “—Sam?” And perhaps she did.

Shaw snatched the knife and the woman let her, even when the same blade pressed onto the side of her neck in return. “Who are you?”

“A curious wanderer. I’ve heard whispers about a knight venturing to the Groves’ land, I didn’t expect it to be the constable herself.”

“What do you want from me?” Shaw pressed further, breaking the skin. A drop of blood dripped from the tip of her knife and trailed down pale skin. The woman didn’t even flinch.

“Nothing. At least not from you, Sam.”

The woman lifted her left hand and Shaw retreated back, putting a distance between them. Too bad, it was not far enough for when the woman struck her with her right. Shaw stumbled back, stars on the edge of her vision. She was a little dazed and in pain from her bleeding nose.

“I’m sorry I have to do that. You really wouldn’t let me leave if I don’t,” the woman said, slipping away from Shaw’s blind reach. “We’ll meet again soon.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coat of Arms: the unique heraldic design symbolizing association with an individual person or family, kingdom, or state.
> 
> Squire: assistant to the knight. At thirteen or fourteen, a page becomes squire and starts to practice fighting on horseback. At twenty-one, a squire could become a knight themselves.

After the encounter with the mysterious woman, Shaw didn’t go back to the bar. She checked her nose, wiped it clean of blood, and rechecked her dark brown steed. The horse was still there. He neighed at her, motioning at the fallen carrot with his front left hoof. Shaw rolled her eyes at him, yet did as he wanted. After a lot of munching and a short petting, she left him for the night. She climbed back into her room without anyone noticing. There was no use to alert her men of the unfortunate encounter. They would find it out in the morning—the state of her face would tell them as much.

Turned out, it wasn’t everyone’s first concern when they gathered at dawn. Shaw stared at the vacant barn with clenched jaws. She didn’t think the woman from last night had the nerve to come back to steal her horse _after_ stealing her knife _and_ punching her face, all while knowing who she was. Then again, she hadn’t expected such lean, well-off woman to pack a mean punch and yet her swollen nose said otherwise.

“What should we do?” The coachman asked, pulling Shaw out of her thought. Lucky for them, the carriage horse was left untouched. It was already strapped outside, ready to go. “Jack found fresh horse track heading to the woods. Should we go after the thief?”

“No,” Shaw answered after a long beat. “We don’t have time for that. His Majesty’s expectin’ us to be back by tomorrow’s evening. The ball’s in two days.” She gritted her teeth. Indigo had been her constant companion since she lost her last destrier in the war. “I’ll walk.”

“But—“

Shaw held up a hand, cutting the man from whatever protest he wanted to express. He nodded his assent then left the barn. Shaw took once last glance at the empty room before she too went to join the rest of their troop. They had a lady to pick and deliver; she couldn’t afford to deviate from her given mission. She would be back once she completed it, though.

The forest’s barren canopy of greens and slight chill of the weather didn’t help Shaw and her thick armor. Her face flushed from the heat trapped under the iron plate, sweats crowning her hairline. Still, she led the troop through the woods with renewed vigor. The task brought such bad luck. All she wanted was to finish it faster because she dreaded something worse would take place the longer she carried on the mission. She was relieved once they reached the Groves Castle without any further incident.

“Identify yourself!” the tower guard said from his post. He had told the archers to put down their arrows once he saw their banner and Shaw’s Coat of Arms, but he needed more before telling the gatekeeper to lower the bridge over the moat.

Shaw furrowed her brows. She hadn’t been informed about any serious situation on the border and yet the soldiers in the Groves Castle seemed to be prepared for war. “Constable Shaw of Thornhill. I’m here to see Lady Groves under the order of King Harold.”

There were more shouting coming from the inside of the castle. Shaw waited while the bridge was being lowered and the iron gate drew up. The gate soldiers stood straight as her troop walked past. Inside, the villagers parted the way for them and did nothing to hide their whispers of interest. As she walked through the courtyard, Shaw wondered if the woman from the night before was amongst them, cloaked and hiding within the crowd.

Sir Jason, the knight pledged to the Groves, jogged up to welcome them. The state of the bruise on Shaw’s face didn’t bother him, her lack of steed did. “I wasn’t informed of your arrival. If I had, I would’ve prepared a fitting welcome.” He motioned to himself and his squire, a teenage girl with hair twisted into dreads, with sheepish smile. The two of them made up the welcoming party as everyone else continued to do their own activities; most were geared-up soldiers running here and there. “Things have been busy ‘round here.”

Shaw’s frown deepened. “We’re here for Lady Groves.” And now she had more than just the simple invitation to talk with the lady, like asking for the reasons she deployed the army without consulting her in the first place.

“Apparently, the lady has been expecting you since this morning.”

Shaw didn’t question what he had meant, because he looked confused too.

“She’ll see you in the field by the back of the castle. Edith here—“ his squire stepped up when her name was mentioned “—will show your men to the stable and soldier quarters while I bring you to the lady.”

Shaw agreed and nodded to her men before she walked away with Sir Jason. She didn’t bother to fix her appearance. For all she knew, this elusive Lady Groves could be someone as old as Harold. Shaw believed she looked decent enough— _annoyed_ enough to talk about the war she didn’t know was coming.

They passed the training ground where most soldiers were doing their morning training—some fought with wooden swords while the rest practiced archery. They took a turn to where the field was located. It was an open space leading to the opening of the castle garden. The grass was green and kept short. A low fountain was in the middle of it and there stood Lady Groves, her back to them.

From what she could see, Shaw noted the lady was tall and lean. Her wavy hair was let loose, just over her shoulders. The dyed curls shined golden under the sun. She wore dark blue tunic with black leather trousers and boots. Her cape bore no Coat of Arms, yet she had the stand of a trained knight. Her left arm, which was covered in brown leather glove from the elbow down, was arched forward. She whistled to the air. Within seconds, a falcon zoomed in to land on her stretched arm. The closer Shaw got to where Lady Groves was standing, the more she wished she had been wrong about what—or more like _who_ she was seeing.

“You gotta be kidding me...” Shaw muttered under her breath with disbelief and a whole new level of displeasure.

Sir Jason didn’t slow down until they were in talking distance with Lady Groves. He introduced Shaw to her, but the constable heard none of it, not even when he was being excused. In front of her, stood the lady of the castle, the very same woman who had stolen her knife and punched her face just the night before. Shaw was cynical at first, thinking the moonlight and pain had played tricks on her sight. However, when Lady Groves’ locked gaze with her, eyes twinkling in mischief and the slightest smirk graced her lips, her doubt vanished.

“Constable Shaw,” Lady Groves said with a slight dip of her head. Her make-up made her appear paler, but other than that, there was no single sign of her being a widow. She couldn’t be more than a couple summers older than Shaw.

“Lady Groves,” Shaw greeted back, with enough hint of fury in her voice.

“Please, you can call me Samantha.” She raised the falcon and then it was soaring up in the air again, leaving them alone. If Shaw wasn’t pissed yet with the woman, she was by then, because Lady Groves had the audacity to lift her ungloved hand and offer it to her. “Or Sam for short.”

Shaw stared at the hand dangling in front of her face. Male knights did that—kissing a lady’s hand out of courtesy. It was considered rude, sometimes even punishable, to turn down such gesture. But Shaw was once a lady too ( _still_ a lady, Harold would reprimand her). She didn’t go around kissing another lady’s hand. A nod of acknowledgement was the most anyone ever got from her.

(Harold kissed her hand once. Years ago when she was a new page serving in the palace and he was the crown prince. She stomped on his foot. He never tried it again.)

For all the annoyance coursing through her veins, Shaw took Lady Groves’ hand and gave it a firm shake. It earned her a small disappointed pout, one she chalked as a victory. To whatever end Lady Groves tried to achieve, she seemed pleased enough with the way Shaw had responded, because she was back on smiling at her again.

“Would you care for a walk? Some flowers are particularly lush just before they wither in winter.”

Shaw answered with a stiff nod, letting the lady lead the way into the garden. She kept her steps light and Lady Groves didn’t bother to check if she were following her or not. It wasn’t until they reached an area deep in the garden, which was placed behind the chapel and thus hidden from any prying eyes, that Shaw made a move. Lady Groves didn’t resist when Shaw yanked her arm, her back kissing the cold stonewall with a soft thud and Shaw’s chest plate pressing on her front. If anything, she appeared to be expecting the ambush—enjoyed it, even.

“I wasn’t aware that you fancy me that way.”

Shaw’s nose twitched. She didn’t like being too close to anyone, both in emotional and physical senses. But judging from the outcome of their encounter last night, it would be better to keep Lady Groves closer than arm’s length. At least she wouldn’t be able to swing another punch at her.

“Lady Groves, I have to ask, what the hell do you think you’re doing with _my_ soldiers?”

Lady Groves wasn’t surprised that it was the only question Shaw bothered to ask. She stayed unfazed. “As much as I’d love some girl talk, you’re not exactly the person in charge, Sam. I’ll only explain myself to the king.”

“Lucky you, His Majesty sent me to pick you up.”

At that, Lady Groves was surprised.

“For the dance,” Shaw said. The invitations had been sent all over the known nobles of their kingdom, but of course Harold would want to treat his date right and sent his very own constable to pick her. “He wished you’d come as his date.”

“Very well then.” Lady Groves’ smile widened, like a cat just eating the canary.

Shaw’s guts were screaming at her, telling her that something was very off with the woman. She didn’t trust her for one bit, not with the enthusiasm she exuded for the date invitation. Shaw would die for Harold, but he wasn’t people’s favorite person. He could be too stiff at times—too righteous in his opinions, too cautious in his decisions, and too private with his feelings. It was a wonder how he managed to charm and open up to the late queen. So it was either Lady Groves hadn’t met him before or she had an unpleasant intention towards him. Either way, Shaw was going to keep a close eye on her.

“I shall get ready.” Lady Groves excused herself, slipping away from Shaw and the stonewall she had been trapped in between. She wasn’t out of Shaw’s sight yet when she stopped short and called over her shoulder. “And Sam—“ this time she made sure Shaw’s attention was on her before continuing “—Indigo is in the stable. I’m sorry I have to borrow him last night.” She winked at last, before hurried away.

Shaw grumbled a curse, marching to where she saw their carriage was being led to. Of course that crazy woman was nuts enough to also steal her horse.

 

* * *

 

The bell rang, indicating the mid-morning meal, but Shaw remained in the stable. They had to leave at the latest by dawn tomorrow and she wanted to make sure that Lady Groves hadn’t caused any damage on Indigo. She was in the middle of checking his forelegs, making mental note of trimming the right hoof once they got back to the palace, when Sir Jason came up to her. Bread, slices of cheese, and a pitcher of grape juice balanced on his arms.

“The lady sent these.” At Shaw’s suspicious look, he said, “She told me that you’re wary of her.” He laughed a little, putting down the food on top of a hay roll by the stable door. “Rest assured, it’s not poisoned.”

Sir Jason ripped a part of the loaf and took a slice of cheese with it to prove his point. Only after it was well swallowed with a wealthy gulp of the grape juice and he didn’t have seizure or foaming mouth that Shaw believed him. She couldn’t be too cautious with Lady Groves around.

“What’s she been telling everyone?” Shaw asked between bites. She had joined Sir Jason, sitting on the hay rolls. “That an attack is coming?”

“You mean the lady?”

She nodded.

“Nothing no one don’t know about.” Sir Jason ducked his head, shying away from Shaw’s intense gaze. He hadn’t been a knight for five summers yet and being with the constable made him feel small, even though she wasn’t that much older compared to him. “She’s convinced that Samaritan’s going for a war in winter.”

“And you just believed her?”

Sir Jason shrugged, picking another slice of cheese. “I do, we all do. She’s sort of—how should I say it... She’s somewhat prophetic.”

Shaw snorted a laugh, thinking he was too naïve. War didn’t take place during winter, not when the kingdom initiating it was smaller like Samaritan. It went against common sense. She wouldn’t put her foot down on the soldier deployment matter yet. It was good for the men to be on alert and judging from the way Sir Jason was so fixated with the lady, she had a hunch that they wouldn’t listen to her anyway. However, it also couldn’t continue that way for long either. The news of them getting prepared would reach Samaritan and it would turn Lady Groves’ imaginary war into a real one. The food and drink were good, but it took a lot more to sway Shaw’s poor opinion of her.

“The lady also wanted me to tell you, once you’re done eating, that she’s ready to leave.”

And she did. When Shaw trotted out on Indigo, Lady Groves was already outside on her own horse. It was a beautiful midnight-black mare. Shaw didn’t comment on it, or on how Lady Groves hadn’t bothered to change her clothes. She rolled her eyes at her as their rides strolled side by side through the courtyard, the foot-soldiers and carriage would meet them on the gate.

Bringing that carriage was all for nothing.

 

* * *

 

The journey back was faster. Their pace stayed leisure not for long. Lady Groves kept stealing the lead position, something that Shaw was sure she did to rattle her cage on purpose. The competitive part of her didn’t take well to the subtle challenge and before they knew it, they were racing through the path in the forest in an alarming speed.

Shaw pulled up in front of the tavern just a little after the sun had set. Lady Groves a close second behind her and she greeted her with a winning grin. Speeding with her steed always gave her such exhilaration that was as good as a hand-to-hand combat. With her bruised nose bridge and her armor reflecting the last light of the day and cool breeze sweeping over her bangs and Lady Groves had the breath hitched in her throat. Shaw wasn’t aware of the effect she was having on her, though.

“Loser pays dinner,” she declared. It was always nice to claim a prize, even more when it involved food.

After snapped out of the daze she had fallen into, Lady Groves replied, “It’s a date?”

From her position standing beside Indigo, Shaw rolled her eyes and shook her head at her. She handed the reins over to the boy who had rushed out of the tavern to take care of their horses. She had to wait for her men later, but first she must book the rooms. She moved inside without giving any answer to Lady Groves’ question and the latter took it as a ‘yes’.

The sour look Shaw gave her once she followed her inside made her reconsider the thought. “Is everything okay?” Lady Groves asked, looking at Shaw then to the tavern owner.

He recognized her. The smile he sported was one of relief and she didn’t have to wonder what could have caused such reaction. “I’m truly sorry, my lady, but the place’s packed tonight. Some merchants stopping by on their way to your castle.”

Lady Groves lighted up from the news. Fate was being generous with her as of late. First with the king and now with the merchants. She didn’t have to make her other knight, Sir Daniel, deliver the goods she had ordered weeks ago.

The tavern owner continued, “Two rooms are—“

“Not enough,” Shaw interjected. “I have three men coming.”

“We can share, Sam.” Lady Groves said with a big smile. Things had been going so well for her.

“No.”

“Do tell why.” Lady Groves had one elbow on the reception counter, chin propped on the heel of her palm as fingers curled against her cheek. A smirk tugged up the corner of her lips. “Does it bother you to share a room with me? Or—“

“Fine.” Shaw slammed the bag of coins onto the uneven wooden surface. “Give the bigger room to my men and some extra cots,” she ordered. The owner bobbed his head, happy to save his skin and scoured a lot of money at the same time. “Dinner’s still on you,” Shaw said at the other woman.

Lady Groves was too pleased to do much more than maintaining her smile as she followed Shaw to their room for the night. At last, everything fell into place and it was better than she had planned.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marquis/Marquise: Lords/Ladies responsible for guarding border areas.
> 
> Page: servant or attendant, as young as at the age seven, given to a knight to be trained for knighthood.
> 
> Main-gauche: the parrying dagger used by the left hand to accompany a rapier.
> 
> Joust: a martial game between two horsemen wielding lances with blunt tips, often as a part of a tournament.
> 
> Pavilion: round, bright-colored medieval tent housing the combatants and surgeons during tournament.
> 
> Surgeons: medical practitioner inferior to physician but superior to barber. They were allowed not only to let blood and pull teeth, but also performing minor surgery and even amputation, especially for soldiers during or after a battle.
> 
> Invocation: the opening ceremony before tournament.
> 
> Gauntlet: part of the armor protecting the hand and forearm.
> 
> Favour: veil, ribbon, detachable sleeve (anything, actually) presented by a lady for her knight. It would be attached to the arm, helm, or tied to the lance. The knight then would dedicate their performance at the tournament to the lady.
> 
> Lists: the field where a joust is held.
> 
> Berfrois: a grandstand built a full story above the lists to house the ladies and the noble spectators.
> 
> Doublet: snug-fitting buttoned jacket for men.
> 
> Surcoat: a coat worn over other clothes or the outermost garment itself.
> 
> St. Anthony’s fire: ergotism (poisoning from fungal infection of the grain, especially rye).
> 
> Code of chivalry: honor code of the knight that goes beyond rules of combat, including the concept of courtly love.
> 
> Contraries: another man’s partner in dance; the lady on the left in a group dance.
> 
> Herald: a royal or official messenger who arranged tournaments and other functions and regulate the use of armorial bearings.

They arrived back at the palace on the afternoon. Everyone was busy preparing for the upcoming dance and some invitees had arrived already. Shaw brought Lady Groves to the Great Hall. The chamberlain ushered them in between the nobles who wanted to do a proper greeting and express their appreciation for getting invited to the king. Inside, Harold, who looked as drained as they were, if not more, was with Fusco and Genrika.

Shaw’s greeting was less formal, a small nod at Harold and another to Fusco. Then she took the liberty to reintroduce Lady Groves.

Lady Groves, however, was more proper. “My King,” she said. Her right calf crossed behind the other one, knees bent, and body lowered in a perfect curtsey even though she wasn’t wearing a dress.

Harold had stepped down from the throne. He took hold of Lady Groves’ hand and placed chaste kiss on its back. Shaw watched the exchange. Lady Groves had accepted the gesture with polite smile and nothing more. After the way she had insisted on talking only to Harold, Shaw had expected her to shoot off on whatever matter she wanted to discuss once she met him, yet she remained closed-off. She didn’t appear to be shy, though.

Shaw’s observation had to be cut short as the court proper etiquette wasn’t a concern for Genrika yet. She fussed and wiggled in Fusco’s arms until he relented and put her down. She fumbled on her first step, but she regained her footing with Fusco’s help and continued toddling to the women.

“Sa-am.”

Shaw would rather be hung than admitting that the way Genrika said her name was cute, but she grinned nonetheless. Reese’s and her names were amongst the first words the toddler had learned to pronounce and Shaw was quite proud of it.

“Hey princess.” Shaw remained standing. One of her hands was messing with Genrika’s hair to show her affection. Reese had better nurturing instinct than she would ever possess. If it were him, he would have scooped Genrika up by now. “I see you’re having fun with Fusco,” Shaw said, smirking at the red coloring powder on his cheeks.

Genrika bobbed her head up and down, her golden curls tumbling about.

“Gen,” Harold called. He guided his daughter’s attention away from Shaw and to the other woman. “I’d like you to meet Lady Groves.”

The girl scrunched her nose. Lady Groves was one of the many guests she was introduced to that day and her title wasn’t easy to say for a toddler. Still, she grinned at her, exposing the rows of tiny white teeth she had. “Ello.”

For the slightest seconds, a horrified look crossed Lady Groves’ face. Shaw wasn’t the only one who was bad with children. She snorted a laugh under her breath, thinking how ironic it was for Harold to agree on a remarriage for Genrika’s sake and got a spouse candidate who didn’t even like kids. Fusco had arrived at the same conclusion, but his guffaw was less discreet and it earned him the stink-eye from Harold.

“Gen.” Shaw crouched down so she was on the same eye-level as her. “This is Sam.”

The princess furrowed her brows together. “Sam?” Her head tilted to one side and a hand placed on Shaw’s chest armor.

Shaw laughed and took the small hand in hers. “Sam.” She tapped on the breast plate and then pointed their hands at Lady Groves’ direction. “Sam too. We have the same nickname.”

Genrika frowned. She stared at Shaw, then at Lady Groves, and back at Shaw again before she nodded to herself. “Sam!” She squealed, clapping her hands and went to cling on Lady Groves’ legs.

“Oh...” The sudden embrace had startled Lady Groves. “Okay...”

“Sam,” Genrika said again. This time, she was smiling at Shaw.

Shaw rolled her eyes.

“How much you wanna bet it’ll be her favorite game now, huh, _Sam_?” Fusco chuckled.

“Alright, Gen.” Harold stepped in before anything could escalate into something none of them wanted, because Lady Groves was on the verge of bolting out and Shaw looked like she was going to stab Fusco anytime soon. “Lady Groves and Lady Shaw are tired from their journey. We should let them rest before supper, yes?”

The princess was a bit reluctant as Harold herded her back to Fusco. “Sam...” She half-whined. No one knew which one of the two women she had intended to call, but neither of them responded to it.

“If it’s not too much, Lady Shaw, could you please escort Lady Groves to her room? I deliberately arranged it to be the one next to yours, just in case she needs any help.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Lady Groves said with a start of a grin. “ _Lady_ Shaw has been a delightful companion.”

Shaw sighed, shaking her head in exasperation. Her mission didn’t stop short on just picking and delivering the lady to Harold because now she must babysit her during her stay too. “Come on.” Shaw turned on her heel and began walking away. Her quarter was on the west wing of the palace, along with the rest of the court officials. She should have chosen to stay in the barracks like the rest of the knights.

Lady Groves bowed at Harold and Fusco, and on last second, waved at Genrika. She then followed Shaw out of the hall and into the endless corridor of the palace. “Looks like we’re going to be neighbors,” she said when she caught up with Shaw. “I wonder when we’ll finally be bedmates.”

Shaw walked a little faster.

 

* * *

 

Shaw didn’t join dinner that night. Her mother—the Shaw who was using the Marquise title that she would inherit one day along with the castle and manors—was one of the new arrivals. Their relationship was shaky at best, with the matriarch going against Shaw’s wish to join the knighthood after her father’s death. She thought there was something wrong with her and she still did. While the older woman no longer bother her, sharing dinner with her and all the other nobles would be too much.

Neither soldiers nor maids questioned Shaw when she showed up at the barracks for dinner. In fact, the cook had made her favorites when he heard of her coming back. There was so much food that she didn’t feel like having breakfast the next day, which was why she and her squire, Clarke, were out dueling on the training ground first thing in the morning.

As it turned out to be, Shaw wasn’t the only one who didn’t take breakfast. She saw Fusco trekking further down the stable with Taylor in tow. Carter’s son would start training to fight on horseback, something Shaw knew Clarke had been dying to learn. But the blonde teenager was late into the knighthood. She was seventeen and just made into squire. If it wasn’t for the fact that Chancellor Morgan was her mother, Shaw wouldn’t bother making Clarke her page in the first place. Teaching and the patience it took to do one were not her forte.

In a few years, once Genrika was able to pick a sword, Reese would join them down here to deal with hot-headed, impatient kids. Shaw tried not to think about how their friends delegated the care of their children to them. She was a respectable knight and _not_ some sort of glorified babysitter.

“Don’t take your eyes off from your opponent!” Shaw pushed Clarke back with a strong blow. She held on, though. “At this rate, Taylor will be made knight before you learn to joust.”

It struck a nerve. Clarke cried out and drove Shaw back. She came at her with full force, but not blind fury. Hit after hit Shaw managed to parry, until once again Clarke’s eyes wandered to something beyond Shaw and she used the opportunity to deliver the final blow. Clarke felt the ghost slash from the tip of Shaw’s wooden sword on her neck. If it were real sword, she would be dead by then.

“What did I tell you?”

Clarke kept glancing up. “Uh...”

Then, something hit the back of Shaw’s head. She turned around with sword raised, ready to fight whichever coward that was crazy enough to hit her when her back was turned to them. There was nothing but the palace’s wall and a red apple—one that she identified as the hostile projectile—rolling to a stop on the ground in front of her. She bent to retrieve it and then looked up to the balcony. It was reserved for the people in the palace who wished to observe the training and leaning on the marble banister was no other than Lady Groves.

“I heard you skipped breakfast.”

Shaw rolled her eyes at her—it had become a habit she developed since she met Lady Groves. From her unchanged attire, she suspected she didn’t attend breakfast either. Shaw turned back to Clarke, apple still in her hand. She was kind of hungry, though. “Let’s take a break. You should grab some food.” With a nod of her head, she excused her squire.

“Thank you.” Clarke took Shaw’s sword to be put back in its place along with hers.

When Shaw glanced up again, Lady Groves was nowhere to be seen. She thought nothing of it, even felt a little relieved to get rid of the annoying woman. She walked up to the wall and leaned on it to hide from the sun. Shaw wiped the red fruit with the front of her tunic before taking a bite. It was sweet and juicy, just the right snack to put out her thirst. She had finished off most of it when she saw Lady Groves making way towards her from across the field. So much for getting rid of her.

“Thanks for the apple,” Shaw said as she threw the stem into a nearby can. She might be irritated with Lady Groves, but she wasn’t a rude savage. “Did you talk with Harold?” And perhaps she was a bit curious, too.

“Nothing of real importance yet. Do you want to continue training?”

“With you?” Shaw wasn’t even surprised when Lady Groves nodded. She knew better than to belittle someone’s skill, especially someone who had managed to sneak a punch on her at their first meeting. The bruise hadn’t faded yet. “Sure.” She shrugged and went over the barrel that held different kind of wooden weapons. She picked a couple of shortswords and gave one to Lady Groves.

“Can I have another one, please?”

Shaw stared at her with incredulous look, but continued searching. “Two swords at once?” She handed her another. “That’s kinda lame.”

Lady Groves tilted her head to the side and smiled.

They walked to the middle of the training ground; it began to fill out since breakfast was over. The soldiers knew better than to stare, in fear of Shaw’s angry glare, but she couldn’t stop her fellow knights from doing so. Reese, in particular, didn’t bother to hide his interest as he stopped his warm-up altogether and moved closer. Shaw narrowed her eyes at him, to which he just shrugged and continued watching.

Shaw stood her ground as Lady Groves circled around her. She was at disadvantage. Lady Groves had watched her sparring with Clarke earlier, for God knows how long, while she didn’t have the slightest idea of what her style would be.

It was quite unusual to wield two swords at once. Through her life, Shaw had encountered only two people who did. Neither was a woman and both used one longer sword—a rapier—to attack and a dagger as main-gauche. Lady Groves picked swords of the same length. Shaw couldn’t tell which one would be used for parrying.

Her assessment was cut short when Lady Groves sprung forward. Shaw blocked the direct blow and then sidestepped the incoming stab on her side. So both swords were used for offense, she noted. She spun around, tried to slash at Lady Groves’ unguarded back, but she was quick on deflecting the hit.

They went on like that for a while, gaining more spectators along the way. Shaw had a hard time returning the attack because Lady Groves was fluent in exchanging the use of her swords, both left and right could be use at offense and defense when the time called. She fought as though she was gliding on a dance.

After many missed hit, Shaw managed to corner her. Seeing no other way out, Lady Groves avoided getting her torso hit by crouching low on the ground. Her left dagger had been turned the other way around to par Shaw’s next blow that was intended for her shoulder. They were on a stalemate. Lady Groves looked up, grinning, and then swept Shaw off her feet with one swift swipe of her long leg. Shaw fell on her ass with as small yelp. She was halfway sitting up when Lady Groves stepped on her hand that was holding the sword. Her movement stopped when the tip of Lady Groves’ sword nudged her chin up.

“Yield?” Lady Groves asked with a smug smile on her face.

Shaw grinned back. There were few people who were able to beat her in a swordfight—her late mentor, Sir Robert Hersh, who was also the constable before Reese, Reese himself, Carter, and now Lady Groves was added onto that short list. But if there was one thing people should know of Shaw, it was that she never gave up.

“That was kinda hot.” With her free hand, Shaw grabbed onto the sword. She, too, knew how to play dirty. “But hell no.”

Shaw shoved it back as hard as she could. She used the newfound freedom of her right hand to grab on Lady Groves’ ankle and pulled until she fell. Lady Groves lost her balance. Shaw overpowered her, pinning both of her wrists on the ground. It wasn’t until Lady Groves overcame the surprise and smirked that Shaw realized the position they were in. The clapping surrounding them from earlier had fallen into silence too.

“Oh, I like this better,” Lady Groves said.

Shaw scrambled to climb off from Lady Groves. The amount of people watching them was making her uncomfortable, but she stuck around to offer her hand. Lady Groves accepted the help and with one easy heave, Shaw had her up on her feet again. She then bowed at her before vanishing in the crowd, leaving Lady Groves to fend off the fawning soldiers.

 

* * *

 

To keep the guests entertained, Harold hosted a private tournament with jousting as the main event, on the afternoon before every ball. It was also a subtle way to showcase their military prowess. Shaw and Reese’s performance was the most awaited moment, not even her job as the constable managed to get her out of it.

Shaw was in the pavilion. She had just finished putting on her suit of armors; Clarke fetched it for her during the invocation earlier. It was different from the one she wore on the journey to the Groves’ land, heavier and with ornate chest plate. A shiny ceremonial armor of sort. The only thing that didn’t quite fit in the outfit was that instead of the matching gauntlet, a simple leather glove was covering her left hand. It was a favour from Carter—one for her and the other for Reese.

It had developed into a habit and also a way to annoy their king, because whoever won the joust was still winning it for Carter. Even though there was no real champion in this kind of mini tournament, it used to be a fun competition when Carter was still a knight like them. Now she was the justiciar and Shaw and Reese had become so bored with the routine that they came up with a prior agreement of who would win each time.

“You look dashing.”

Shaw looked up from the helmet she was wiping and saw Lady Groves hovering on the entryway. “Thanks.” The compliment didn’t affect her much.

She did, however, take a good look at what Lady Groves was wearing. It was the first time she saw her in a dress. It was made of silk, light purple deepened into darker shade as the skirt flared around her legs, and a golden girdle accentuated her slim waist. Her hair was tied in a single braid. She was gorgeous, and yet there was a part of Shaw that thought it was unfitting, like a fake. She didn’t say so, though.

“You too.” And she waited for the teasing comment that never came. That was a first.

Lady Groves just smiled back at the flattering remark. She walked in until she was standing in front of Shaw. Shaw waited, cocked a brow when she hesitated over something. It was quite an odd view. At last, she had gathered her courage enough to produce a strip of fabric out of the hidden pocket inside her sleeve and offered it to Shaw.

“I hope you win, Sam.”

Shaw knew what it was—a favour. Lady Groves was making her her champion, but it was not only just that. Out of all the other favours she could present her with, she chose one that made of the same material and embroidered in the same design as her girdle. Girdles that on women symbolized protection and virginity, as thus in marriage ceremonies it was required for the husband to take the wife’s girdle. It was a simple favour as it was everything else that Lady Groves didn’t put into words.

Shaw could turn her down—no one but them would know of the exchange and Lady Groves could keep her virtue—but she didn’t want to. Such thought didn’t even cross her mind. She nodded once and let Lady Groves tie the fabric around her right wrist. Lady Groves’ smile was wide and bright when she left the pavilion. Shaw did the same as she traced her new favour with gloved fingers.

 

* * *

 

It was the last course of the joust. Reese had won the first and Shaw the second. The blacksmith would have hard time fixing the dents on their armors without affecting the ornamented parts. The next course would determine the winner and conclude the entire event, as the sun was getting low on the horizon and the dance would take place in the evening.

Indigo was standing proud; his blue caparison flowing around his legs. On the other end of the lists, Reese and his destrier were getting ready as well. This was it, this was the final event.

For the first time since Shaw entered the lists, she looked up to the berfrois, where the royalties along with the nobilities were watching the tournament. Lady Groves, as the guest of honor, was sitting beside Harold. Whatever they were talking about seemed important, their expressions said so. Shaw watched Harold put an end to the conversation, waving off whatever Lady Groves was trying to say next. She wasn’t satisfied with the way Harold had reacted, but her frown vanished when her eyes caught Shaw’s across the field.

From what little Shaw could discern, Lady Groves was smiling at her. Their eye contact held on until the horn announced the start of the last course. Lady Groves didn’t clap along with the rest of the crowd, as she was waving at Shaw. Shaw offered the briefest smile at her before she donned her helmet. She was going to win for her.

The joust itself didn’t last for one full minute. Between spurring Indigo, keeping his pace just right, the limited movement and sight due to her armor, and the weight and length of the lance to be controlled, Shaw stopped thinking and just went with the flow. The tip of Reese’s and her lances met in the middle and slid against each other. Reese changed the direction of his lance within milliseconds. He was going after her side. With how close their proximity was, Shaw wasn’t going to be able to evade. Thus with a twist of her wrist, she pivoted her whole strength to hit his hand. Surprised, he lost grip of the lance and it fell off to the ground as their horses raced past each other. Then it was over.

Shaw pulled Indigo into a stop and turned him around. They were facing the berfrois, her eyes fixed on Lady Groves, and she raised her right arm. The crowd cheered for the new champion.

Reese remained silent as the two of them and their horses were led back to their pavilion. Unmounting the destriers was about as hard as climbing on. Clarke and some other soldiers had to help them down. It wasn’t until they were left alone inside the pavilion—none sustained any injury and thus the surgeons were ushered out—and had taken off their helmets that Reese spoke.

“I thought I was supposed to win.” He waved his right hand, indicating the favour from Carter. It was indeed his turn to win, that was the reason he received the right glove in the first place.

Shaw shrugged, taking off the parts of her suit without minding Reese’s presence. He was like an older brother to her. She had long ago lost the sense of modesty with him around.

“Yeah, not my fault you were too slow.”

A grin made its way to his lips. He watched Shaw untying the golden fabric from around her wrist and then folded it. “Nothing to do with your new favour? I’m sure I saw Lady Groves wearing the same kind around her waist.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

* * *

 

There was a banquet that night and the dance afterwards. Shaw came as Reese’s date, but did so for the food. They ditched each other once the dance started—he went for his many lovers as she stayed on the sidelines where the food was.

Too bad for her, Harold was less lenient involving her attire. She wasn’t allowed to pass off with trousers and doublet like Reese did. She envied him for being able to show off the various emblems he had collected through the years of his service as Thornhill’s knight while she had to suck in her chest to fit in the stupid corset. Harold even made them went with color-coordinated attire. No black and they had agreed on avoiding the more dramatic color, so white was their color for the night. As thus, Shaw was dressed in a pearl white strapless gown. It was made of the finest silk the merchant brought from Far East, with laces tightening the front. Her hair was tied in her usual ponytail with a silk ribbon that matched her gown and it was the farthest she went in the term of keeping up her appearance.

Shaw had caught her mother’s disapproving scoff at her peasant-like hair-do from across the dining table earlier that night. They both shared the same idea of making sure their path wouldn’t cross each other. Shaw was more than fine with it. She lingered on the sideline, but even so, she felt many pairs of eyes—one in particular belonged to Harold’s date—following her every move.

Lady Groves, even when it was her first time attending a dance in the palace, had fit in as if she had always belonged with the noble class since birth. Even from her spot, Shaw could see the reason men and women easily charmed by her. She was easy on the eyes and her constant smile put people on ease.

The gown Lady Groves wore was more complicated than the one from the joust. It was assembled of fine linen and silk. The surcoat was bright blue, gold threads embroidered its white hem on the lapels. They were tightened from under the bust down to the navel with a series of laces that were left dangling down in front of her flowing skirt. The sleeves were wide and the neckline was low. A gold necklace with azure stones stood out against the fair skin of her collarbone. Unlike Shaw, she did something with her hair. It was held up together with a net in the shape of a perfect round bun on the back of her head. Some curls were left loose to frame her face.

She had become the new darling of the court as almost every male asked her for a dance, one after another. At some point, even Reese did. Shaw didn’t have the desire to score one. Lady Groves was beautiful and also good with the swords—those were two qualities Shaw admired, but the two of them together would be like another outbreak of St. Anthony’s fire waiting to happen. She would like a rematch of their fight, though.

Shaw spent the evening snorting at the bizarre fashion trends. Every once in a while, her gaze would stray to Lady Groves, but she casted it away before being noticed. At least her presence made the dance less unbearable for her. She had shunned away the men who dared to ask her for a dance. She would accept one if Carter asked, alas it wasn’t going to happen, so she remained away from the dance floor until it was time for the last dance.

The music had paused. Harold asked Lady Groves in such dramatic way that got cheered on. She of course accepted and right on cue, the music restarted. Moments later, Shaw took hold of Reese’s hand and tugged him to join the couple. It was, yet again, part of the things Harold had requested them to do. One after another, more couples followed their example and then the dance floor was full of people swaying in sync.

Dancing was somewhat a chore more than an entertaining pastime for Shaw. It was a mandatory, as the code of chivalry enforced every knight to learn the court dance. The steps had ingrained themselves in her brain. She preferred the livelier version of the folk dances, where people was dressed less silly and she wasn’t rehearsing the steps in her mind like she was doing at the moment.

When it was time for partner exchange, Reese moved to Lady Groves as Harold to Shaw. The men would do one round of dance with their contraries before returning to their partners for the last. However, on the last second, Lady Groves sidestepped Reese and grabbed Shaw instead.

“What the hell are you doing?”

She glanced over Lady Groves’ shoulder and saw Harold and Reese had the same expression as her. The unplanned change startled them, except for Lady Groves herself, who slipped into the leading role as the dance resumed. Her hand rested on the small of Shaw’s back as the other supported their hands. She danced like she fought, with elegance and just enough fierceness. Harold, on the other hand, fumbled a bit in Reese’s arms.

“Something I’ve wanted to do since the beginning of this ball,” Lady Groves said, smiling down at Shaw. “Dancing with you.”

“Fine.” Shaw huffed and rolled her eyes, but she failed to hide the little smile she had. “Whatever.”

The show of exaggerated annoyance didn’t affected Lady Groves anymore; she had grown used to it. Even Shaw couldn’t deny that they were so good together—be it in a fight or a dance. They were perfect for each other, she was sure Shaw was going to realize it someday. For now, though, she was content with just dancing with her.

“A change must happen soon and when it does, please trust me.”

Sometime during the first twirl, Shaw had stopped thinking about the next steps and let Lady Groves lead her movement. Thus she got bothered with the sudden talking. “Is it about the war again?” She didn’t scoff this time, though. She had known Lady Groves long enough to tell that she was serious, despite her often cryptic smile, like the one she was giving her at the moment. “Right, you’ll only talk to Harold.” Shaw couldn’t help but shake her head. “That didn’t seem to go so well.” She smirked at her, challenging.

“I’m working on it.”

Before Shaw could say more of the matter, it was time for the exchange again. It went without any surprising turn this time and everyone ended back with their intended partner. Shaw couldn’t keep her eyes off of Lady Groves, watching her whispering into Harold’s ear. Whatever she had said, he agreed on it with a solemn nod. The way Lady Groves smiled in response was worrying Shaw.

When the dance ended, everyone paid respect the people they were dancing with a small dip of their heads. Chancellor Morgan then took the floor, clinking her glass with a spoon to gather everyone’s attention. She had the honor of announcing their king’s engagement to one Lady Samantha Groves.

 

* * *

 

“You know where they are, John?” Shaw asked.

The ball was over, congratulatory were exchanged. Shaw and Reese were among the firsts to get the opportunity congratulating the new couple. While Lady Groves stayed smiling, even though it seemed rather off for Shaw, Harold had a look of genuine distress. He had whispered something to Reese before the herald ushered the two knights away. There was quite a long line of people waiting for their chance to show their appraisal. Then Shaw lost track of the two amongst the dispersing crowd.

“Harold told me they’ll be in the library. He didn’t know about the engagement, neither did Lady Groves.”

“Dammit, Zoe.”

“Zoe is just doing her job.”

Shaw quirked a brow at him. “Just because she’s your lover, doesn’t mean she can’t be shitty at what she does.”

Reese didn’t take the bait. “Why are you so angry about this?”

“I’m always angry,” Shaw said, huffing.

She handed him her handmade shoes after she slipped into the boots she had kept hidden under one of the tables. She marched to the library; her movement was slower due to the constricting outfit. Reese was left staring the discarded footwear on his hand. Shaw trusted that he would to take care of it anyway.

The soldier standing on guard in front of the double-door greeted Shaw. “His Majesty ordered to let you and Sir John in.”

“Is Lady Groves still inside?”

“Yes.”

Shaw scowled at his suggestive grin. “Fetch me Sir John.”

His face fell and he scrambled to do as Shaw ordered. She didn’t tell him that Reese was going to spend his night with Morgan and would be annoyed for being disturbed.

Shaw slipped inside and closed the door behind her. The Grand Library of the palace held the largest collection of literatures throughout their kingdom. It was also the biggest chamber in the entire palace. Harold had a certain love for knowledge and the various hand-written books he collected only proved it further. He could spend hours—days, even, in it if they let him. Shaw, however, couldn’t stand the strong smell of dried animals hides they used to make the thick manuscripts. Said unpleasant scent attacked her nostrils and she crinkled her nose in disgust. The maids needed to reapply new strewing herbs on the floor soon.

Once she got over with it, she walked further into the dim room. Tall bookcases first greeted whoever entered the library. On the end of the long rows was an open space where Harold’s lone desk and chair were situated so the light from the windows would illuminate it. The room held certain warmness in it due to the fireplace. It was overall quiet and intimate. Shaw would’ve liked to spend more time there if she could agree with the smell.

Whilst walking down the aisle, she took out the favour Lady Groves had entrusted her before the joust. She had intended to return it on the ball, but hadn’t got the time to do so. The betrothal news further assured her of her decision. She would put an end to whatever they were having. The attraction between them was strong, but she was a good soldier. Her loyalty lay on the throne and the kingdom first and foremost, even though something in her chest ached with the thought of Lady Groves being her new queen.

When Shaw reached the end of bookshelf, she stopped short, hand gripping the favour. She was glad she had refrained from announcing herself, because Lady Groves was bending over the chair Harold was seated on, holding a knife to his throat.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Belladonna ( _Atropa belladonna_ ; deadly nightshade; devil’s berries): poisonous plant. First used in eye-drops by Italian women to dilate the pupils and make them appear seductive (thus "bella donna" or "pretty woman"). Its narcotic, sedative, and antispasmodic properties can be extremely toxic on high dose.
> 
> Maid of Honor: unmarried lady attending the queen or princess.
> 
> Steward: the man responsible for running the day-to-day affairs of the castle when the lord was absent.
> 
> Dropwort ( _Oenanthe crocata_ ; hemlock water; horsebane; dead tongue; five-fingered root): poisonous plant. Occasionally have been eaten by mistake and resulting in great agony, sickness, convulsion, and even death can occur within three hours.

Lady Groves’ diplomatic approach went south the second Chancellor Morgan announced the engagement she didn’t even get asked to give her consent at. She was disappointed. Not only Harold claimed he never received those letters of warning she had sent months ago and then dismissed the information she gave him as crazy talk, his court also insulted her. They reduced her value into just a woman available to be wed to their king. He admitted of not knowing about the announcement, ensuring that he would meet her in the palace library right after the ball.

She had slipped her belladonna eye-drop into his tea. Bringing poisonous substance around was allowed when it was for cosmetical purpose. In fact, anything catering to men’s desire was encouraged. Although unlike the Roman Emperors’ wives, Lady Groves didn’t intend to kill her king. A couple drops on the eyes dilated the pupils, giving a woman the look of sexual arousal, or when ingested, subdued a grown man enough to tie his arms on the chair without a fight.

“She’s lovely, Harold, just like her mother.” Lady Groves gazed at the portraits sitting atop the mantel of the fireplace. Her fingers swept over the frame of the most recent one, not minding Harold’s presence behind her. “Honestly, I can’t imagine how you’d stand to live without her.”

Harold tensed up at the not-so-subtle threat against his daughter’s life. He strained against the fabric she used to tie his wrists down to the chair, but to no avail. “You try to harm her in any way—“

“I don’t want to hurt Genrika.” Such notion appalled her, but when she turned around, she was smiling. She toyed with a knife, twirling it on one hand with practiced ease. “I’m not crazy, Harold. Believe me, sometimes I wish I was. The things I’ve had to do would’ve been so much easier. I don’t like taking lives, but I will. Because I believe in something more important.” Throughout the speech, she had gotten close enough to tap his chest with the tip of the knife and kept it there. “I believe in your kingdom. Samaritan doesn’t want to destroy Thornhill. They want to take it over. But together, we can save it, Harold. Or I can save them the trouble and kill you and the princess tonight.” For a split second, her smile faltered. “She thinks I’m just like her Sam.” She moved the knife up, holding it against his neck. “You can either save her and Thornhill, or you can lose them both.”

Shaw took cautious step forward and away from the shadow of the tall shelf, revealing herself. “Sam?”

In an instant, Lady Groves stood straight and looked over her shoulder. Her surprise turned into a pained smile when she confirmed that it was indeed Shaw who had walked in on them. Being caught seducing Harold would be a better situation at the moment. She didn’t want Shaw to look at her like that—with confusion and a dawning betrayal. Alas, she couldn’t change the situation. With knife still hovering over the column of Harold’s throat, she rounded the chair until she was facing Shaw and his body shielding hers.

“I really don’t want to hurt him,” she said. “All he has to do is listening to me.”

“I’ve listened to you! But I’m not going into hiding and we’re not going to declare war—”

“Quiet, Harold.” The blade was a press away from breaking skin. “I believed in you. You must see I’m on your side.”

“I’m not on any side.”

“You know what I mean. I’m the best friend, the best support, the best partner you’ll ever have,” Lady Groves said with confidence. “Not the best wife.” Her eyes flitted to Shaw for a brief moment. “But definitely the most fun, too.”

“I’d rather die than starting a war, so please kill me now. At least I won’t have to listen to you anymore.”

Both Harold and Lady Groves were getting agitated. The distance between them would make it too late if Shaw tried to charge straight ahead. Harold would be dead before she could slide over the table and tackle Lady Groves.

Out of options, Shaw felt for the blade she kept on the seam of her corset and slipped it under her palm. It was small, fashioned without a bulging hilt. Its whole body was made out of one piece of metal. There was a technique she had been practicing for a while, but her target had been unanimated object so far. She hadn’t tried it on a real opponent yet. Either she hit Lady Groves or she killed Harold.

“I’m wrong for not talking to you first, Sam,” Lady Groves said with regret. “Samaritan’s going to attack at the first drop of snow. It was nothing but a distraction. We have better chance at stopping them if we attack first.”

Shaw took it as a cue and held the blade on the center of its weight.

“At any rate, without a ruler, you would lead the army.” Lady Groves smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She had noticed the glint of a knife on Shaw’s hand. At this point, she was ready for anything. “That’s good enough for me.”

Before Lady Groves could glide her knife over Harold’s neck, Shaw had thrown hers. It hit the intended mark, sticking its sharp blade on Lady Groves’ left shoulder. She gasped. Knife fell off from her grasp as she grabbed on the wound. Shaw took the opportunity to charge forward. Lady Groves was distracted and thus it made it easy to push her backwards. Together, they stumbled away from Harold.

Shaw had one hand wrapped around her neck as the other pinned her injured arm on the wall. She pushed it up; the position twisted the muscle further around the blade. The area surrounding it was turning red as blood oozed and seeped into the silk of Lady Groves’ surcoat. Her free hand clawed at the hand clenching her neck.

Lady Groves might have high threshold of pain but Shaw was single-minded in her pursue. Her eyes didn’t leave her face as it contorted, tears gathering on the corner of her clenched eyes. Shaw didn’t budge. She squeezed tighter and pushed higher. One last choked moan and Lady Groves blacked out, slumping forward into Shaw’s waiting arms.

 

* * *

 

“Thank you, Lady Mahoney,” Harold said in shaky voice as he gathered Genrika into his arm. She continued to sleep despite his obvious distress. “You’re excused.”

Lady Mahoney, an orphan girl Baron Marcus had saved long time ago and under his request being made into Genrika’s Maid of Honor, smiled to some of the court officials gathering in the king’s bedchamber. It was way past midnight when she was roused and ordered to bring the princess to Harold. She didn’t question it, but it was clear that there was a dire problem. She didn’t dare to linger.

Once the door was closed behind the girl, Carter leaped forward. “Lady Groves will be charged with treason!” She was hissing, minding the sleeping princess. “She posed a threat to the king.”

“This is not a court, Joss,” Morgan said from her position sitting on the foot of the bed. “No physical harm had fallen upon Harold. Shaw stopped Lady Groves just in time.” She acknowledged the constable with a small smile.

“This _will_ get into court.”

Reese and Shaw remained quiet as the two women argued back and forth in low hushes. When Reese arrived earlier, the situation had been defused. He refused to leave Harold’s side, though. Aside from the fresh threat to his life, Shaw’s little stunt of knife-throwing—although successful and had pretty much saved him—had scared him too.

Even so, Harold had ordered the palace physician to tend to Lady Groves’ injury. In discreet, of course. An assassination attempt of the king by his new fiancée would cause unwanted attention nobody wanted to deal with. Shaw had requested for Lady Groves to be contained in her own room for the time being and with troubled look, Harold had granted it.

“She will be sentenced to death, leaving her castle vacant of ruler. Her steward’s a lad who barely speaks our language. The church _and_ Samaritan will try to take over her estate.” Morgan crossed her arms across her chest. Her glare was burning holes on Carter. “Put you unwavering sense of justice aside and try to see it through my eyes. You’re the one who suggested the betrothal idea to the council in the first place!”

Carter flushed from the accusation.

“Enough!” The room fell into silence after Harold’s outburst. It was a wonder how Genrika manage to sleep through the heated argument around her. Still, Harold swayed her a bit. “I’m fine. Shaken, but alive. Thanks to Lady Shaw and for that I owe her my life.”

Shaw nodded.

“Have you figured out what to do with Lady Groves yet?” Reese asked.

Harold gave Carter a pointed look. “As for whether Lady Groves should be punished or not, I can’t decide yet.”

“I can question her.” Everyone in the room knew exactly what such questioning with Reese entailed. “You want to know if she’s telling the truth, and if she is, where she acquired such information. I will make her sing.”

“We’re not beasts!” Harold was horrified. “She is still a lady of Thornhill.”

“I’ll talk to her.” For the first time, Shaw joined in the conversation. At Reese’s hardened stare, she asked, “What, John? You think I can’t do it?”

“I think your feelings might affect your judgment.”

“Feelings?” Shaw chuckled. “Please, I don’t have feelings.”

 

* * *

 

“Everything’s clear?”

“Found this.” Clarke handed a bounded black leather sleeve to Shaw. “It’s tucked between her clothes in the trunk.”

Shaw recognized the bundle as one of the things Lady Groves carried on her horse back when they were traveling to the palace. She hadn’t thought much of it, since Lady Groves persisted on keeping her attention away from it. From the shape of the item held inside the sleeve, Shaw had a good guess of what kind of weapon it was. Still, she didn’t open it out of respect. She was funny like that.

“Good job, Clarke. Go get your breakfast,” Shaw said, opening the door. Her favorite watch dog, Bear, was waiting patiently behind it. He wagged his tail when he saw her and she patted his head. “You too, Bear. Go with Clarke.”

He yelped before bounding out of the door. Clarke’s laugh and his playful bark echoing through the empty hall was the last Shaw heard when she closed the door behind her.

Inside, Lady Groves was sitting on the stool by the vanity table. A blanket wrapped around her body to cover her modesty. Everything was in the proximity radius of her new ankle accessories, the chain attached to the thick bar of the window. Judging from the tattered hem of her underdress, she had tried to get to the door and found out the hard way what happened if she crossed it. Bear was, after all, the best watch dog in the kingdom.

Lady Groves’ unfocused gaze sharpened to Shaw. When Shaw looked away, it was because of the blank stare she gave her and not because of the dried blood on the shoulder area of her underdress. She wouldn’t apologize for what she had to do to stop her from hurting Harold.

Shaw did a visual sweep over the room as she walked up to Lady Groves, noting anything out of place. Without a word, she tugged the blanket and the strap of her underdress aside then peeled off the patch of linen the physician had used as dressing. The wound had been stitched back and there was only small amount of blood on the inner side of the patch.

“Keep ‘em dry.”

Shaw fixed the dressing back to its proper place. Lady Groves smiled a bit, tightening the blanket around herself and not commenting on Shaw’s show of concern. She knew it was the closest form of apology she would ever get from her. She might be a little hasty regarding Harold, but she didn’t feel really bad about it either. At least now he would take her seriously.

“Look, the only reason you’re not stuck in the dungeon right now is me.” Shaw held her hand out, palm facing upwards. “Don’t make me look bad.”

“I couldn’t make you look bad if I tried.”

Despite the flirty tone and innocent smile that accompanied the statement, Shaw continued to hold her hand out. After a prod, Lady Groves gave in. Her hands poked out from underneath the blanket, forearms bound together in an elaborate series of ties, and revealed the knife— _Shaw’s_ knife, one that had just been pulled out of her flesh and had also neglected to secure by the physician—hidden under her right palm. The first knot of the rope was halfway cut off. Shaw shook her head in exasperation as she took her knife back and tucked it in her boot.

Lady Groves watched Shaw dragging another stool to sit in front of her. It was such a pity that her favorite knight was no longer dressed in the stunning white gown she wore for the ball, although the black tunic and pants did give back the dangerous edge that suited her more. Her appreciation was cut short when her attention was drawn to the familiar leather sleeve placed across Shaw’s lap.

“I see that you’ve found my daggers.” She was pleased, nudging her chin at the direction of the wrapped weapons. “May I have them back?”

“No.”

Shaw took the acknowledgement as permission to open the sleeve, though. She noticed Lady Groves’ smile became somewhat proud when twin long-daggers came into view. The blades were light, made of steel. There was intricate design of what could be roots, or serpents resembling ones for the culverin, carved on the grips. From the marks on the blades, Shaw could tell that they were used on regular basis and had been well taken care of. There was no doubt that they belonged to Lady Groves.

“You should know that torture never produces good information,” said Lady Groves after observing Shaw testing her daggers. “Well...almost never.”

Shaw had to agree, although she didn’t even have torture in mind in the first place. She put the daggers back in their sheaths, setting them aside. Lady Groves’ style and level of mastery of swordsmanship, added with her lack of past, were pointing her to be not just another pretty face in the court and it had been in Shaw’s mind, amongst other things of the woman. She would use her words first. Perhaps later they would chat about how she would kill her.

“Who are you?”

The door was opened, interrupting them. Reese, with Harold trailing close behind him, entered the room. Shaw didn’t bother to hide her annoyance when he came to stand beside her, a hand on the hilt of his sword.

Shaw cocked a brow, she wasn’t impressed at all. “The hell are you doing here, John?” She turned to stare at Harold. The brow rose higher on her forehead. “You don’t trust me?”

“We do, Lady Shaw,” Harold said. Uneasiness permeated from his person. “It’s her whom we don’t trust.” Even as he said it, he only gave Lady Groves a passing glance.

Shaw rolled her eyes, but accommodated to the two of them lingering so close to her. Or more like pretending they weren’t there. She noticed Harold’s disapproving glance at the daggers she had placed on the vanity table—within reach of Lady Groves, should she break free of her bidding—but she ignored it. There would be explanation to be made, to assure Harold that those weapons were not hers and the extra part where she provided him the details of her preferable torture methods just to make him squirm in discomfort, but first she needed to hear what Lady Groves had to say. She repeated the question.

“My name? I’ve had a few.” Even with the intimidating spectator, Lady Groves relaxed on her seat. “You can call me Root.”

Shaw exchanged a look with Reese.

Everyone knew the story of Root. An infamous tale circulating around the folk from kingdom to kingdom, about a person who was hired, allegedly by the Justiciar before Carter, to annihilate Samaritan’s village of blacksmiths on the year before the Great War. Root had poisoned the water source with dropwort. Some who survived the deathly effect were slaughtered around midnight, except for one girl.

The girl had testified that it was Death, a thin figure donned in dark cloak and wielding two swords. Sluggish from the poisoning and had come to accept her fate, she dared to question who Death was. Death introduced themselves as Root and because the girl reminded them of themselves, they spared her. The girl remembered everything being whispered in soft, female voice, before she lost consciousness.

Many people, Samaritan’s officers in particular, claimed it as an accidental poisoning. That the girl was in the grip of feverish delusion from the aftereffect of dropwort. Thinking so was easier than acknowledging the fact that someone had wiped almost an entire population of a village. Root’s action had crippled and forced Samaritan to be under Thornhill’s protection during the Great War. The tale had spread nonetheless; from mouth to mouth it escalated. People tended to remove the feminine quality out of it, but still, everyone became wary if the water had a misplaced sweetness characterized to dropwort in it.

Unlike them, most knights serving in Thornhill Palace was aware that Root was very much real. The late Constable Hersh had the pleasure of meeting them in person. His description of the elusive killer was vague at best, but he was quite proud to spread the words of how he had incapacitated them in a sword fight. He used to brag about how he was the cause ‘that snake’ wouldn’t be able to lift a sword anymore, that was before he too passed away under questionable circumstance.

“Show us,” Shaw said.

Lady Groves let the blanket slip off her injured shoulder and further down the strap of her sheer underdress. As more skin was revealed, Harold casted his gaze elsewhere. The view of a woman’s bare upper arm didn’t affect Reese and Shaw in the slightest. What was on it was all that mattered to them—a deep, round scar. It was stitched back together in a hurry to cover most of the missing flesh, leaving the edge jagged. The skin on it was paler than its surrounding due to being burned to stop the heavy bleeding.

“Your mentor stabbed me with a stiletto.” Lady Groves—Root flexed her arms. The muscle contracted and she grimaced, the pain coming from the injury on her shoulder instead of her old one this time. “It took me a year before I can use my arm again.”

Reese had his suspicions when he saw Shaw sparring with Lady Groves. He didn’t make the connection because after all, Root had vanished after killing their late justiciar and the subsequent encounter with Hersh. Thornhill knights believed that Root had died, or at least lost an arm, from the injury he inflicted. Then war broke and there had been no news of the killer-for-hire. Thus it remained as a mere gut feelings for Reese. He, like everyone else, expected Root to be a skilled thug instead of a beautiful woman. And for sure she didn’t get her arm amputated either.

“Who sent you?”

“No one. I’m no longer the monster I used to be. I’ve changed.” But then she locked eyes with Harold, who remained silent and hidden behind his knights and she couldn’t help but smile as he casted his gaze away. “Well, mostly changed.”

Reese noticed the exchange and stepped to the side until he obscured Root’s view of Harold with his body. “Then why are you here, in Thornhill?”

“I like it here. It’s gorgeous.” Root’s eyes never left Shaw’s as she said those words.

Shaw overlooked the insinuation. “How did you know about the attack in the first place?”

“The merchants.”

Shaw recalled the way the merchants flocking around Lady Groves on the night they stayed in the tavern. They buzzed around her like bees drawn to a blossoming flower, yet still keeping a respectful distance. It wasn’t done out of fear. Like the people and soldiers serving in the Groves Castle, they adored her.

“I’ve sneaked into Samaritan to...talk with King Arthur.”

“That sounds both vague and dangerous.”

“Didn’t know you cared, Shaw, and it was just me.”

Shaw rolled her eyes.

“I couldn’t find him. Instead, I walked in on a meeting between Greer and Rousseau. They had someone in Thornhill, a traitor inside the court. Someone who, if the war fails, will kill the entire royal family. The war is a distraction; Samaritan must have a different, possibly less violent mean to take over Thornhill. I just don’t understand why.”

The talk about war strategies had gotten Harold going. For a moment, he forgot about his distrust of the woman and provided an answer to her wondering, although still with the same condescending tone, “Thornhill’s substantially bigger, Lady Groves, and it has more manpower.”

“That still doesn’t explain why Samaritan would need all of that. The war. The traitor.” Root shrugged. “It’s easier to just kill you off.”

“And we should just believe your words of it because?”

“I know a lot, Sam. Every person has a secret, I’m pretty good a finding them. Like the fact that Marquise Shaw isn’t your birth mother. Thirty-one summers ago, your father took an adventurous sail with the merchant to the Middle East—”

In a blink of an eye, Shaw had unsheathed her scimitar and pressed its gleaming sharp edge on Root’s neck. “Don’t talk about my father.”

Root paid no heed to the threat. “Three years later, by the start of spring, he came back with a newborn baby girl. Sameen, named after the ship you were born and the same one your mother died. But you know all of these already, don’t you?” She eyed at Shaw’s unique weapon.

Shaw did, always did. The scimitar was a gift from her birth mother to her father on their wedding. The few who knew about it were already dead, some murdered under her father’s order. It was a well-keep secret he brought to the grave with him. Beside her mother, only Harold and Reese knew.

“Isn’t that also the reason you’re so protective of Genrika? Samaritan’s after Thornhill. They’re after Harold and her, Sam. Forget how you feel about me. How would you feel about that?”

Shaw bit her lip. She stared unwavering at Root’s eyes and saw honesty reflected back. After seconds that felt like hours, she retracted her sword. “Okay. I’ll forget how I feel about you.” She then brought it to the rope that tied Root’s arms. “But when this is over, you better hope I don’t remember.” Despite Harold’s protest, she cut it off.

“May I have my daggers back now?” Root asked instead, even though they were still where Shaw had left them.

“What’s with you and your poor listening skill?” Shaw deadpanned. “No. Way.” Then at Harold, she said, “Send me.”

Harold scrunched his brows together. The situation escalated too fast for his taste. “To war?”

“To Samaritan.”

“Shaw,” Reese said at the same time Harold said, “But you’re the Constable!”

“Their attack is a distraction, if what she said is true.” Shaw nudged her head at Root without looking away.

“As I’ve told her, Arthur would never—“

“When was the last time you exchange correspondence with him again? Before the Great War? He didn’t even respond to your request for him to be Genrika’s godfather.”

Harold fell silent.

“Everything I’ve told you, they’re true,” Root said. “Trust me.”

Shaw disregarded the commentary. She had her back facing Root, who hadn’t just grabbed the daggers and ran with it. Trust was a two-way street and she had kept up with her end. “If I can find what their real plan is or who their agent is, we can stop the war from happening.”

“If there’s going to be a war, Thornhill needs its Constable the most. I’ll send someone else.”

“I am your best knight!”

“So is John.”

Root snorted a laugh, drawing the attention back to herself. “You can’t possibly send him. Everyone knows the knight in shining suit of armor.” She took the chance to mock him because while the story of Root was the monster used to scare children to behave, the story of Lord Reese, Thornhill’s knight in shining suit of armor, was meant to inspire. It was such an irony for them to be in the same room without killing each other, _yet_. “I was going to tell Harold to send me, but he won’t believe me. Send Sam with me, then.”

Three pairs of brows shot up.

“You know, we can fight this thing much faster if we work together. There’s only a few days left till something very bad happens.”

“I prefer my knights to work on their own.”

“May I be blunt, Harold? Your loyal protectors are capable at...certain things, but their skills aren’t gonna cut it this time. On the other hand, King Harold’s new fiancée—” Root sneered at the term “—who runs off after the unexpected betrothal, leaves for Samaritan because she was deeply offended by her king’s lack of romancing. He takes her hand without asking first! Oh, the horror!” She smirked at Harold’s objection to her words, but didn’t give him the chance to express it aloud. “It’ll make a great excuse for me to get into Samaritan Palace. I can bring Sam with me.”

“She’s right,” Shaw said. “We’re out of options. We need her.”

Root grinned at her small victory and tried to push her luck. “May I please have my daggers back now?”

“No, and you’re really starting to irritate me by asking.” Root gave a pleading smile and much to Shaw’s annoyance, she gave in to it. “Not yet,” she said, not quiet enough to escape Resse’s keen hearing and disapproving glare that came with it.

After a long moment of silent consideration, Harold’s opinion remained unchanged. “Thornhill can’t be left without a constable.”

“You can put me back in the position,” Reese said. He didn’t like Root, but having a plan and doing something was better than nothing at all.

Shaw backed him up. “Samaritan wasn’t in the last war and I was on the other side, guarding the shore borders. I’m sure as hell I haven’t had enough patience to sit still to make an official portrait. As long as there is no unofficial one—”

“There is none.”

Root had said with such conviction that left Shaw wondering how far she had searched through her personal information. She narrowed her eyes at her, but there was a more pressing matter to deal with and Harold needed to make up his mind.

“They won’t know who’s comin’ for them. Time’s up, Harold.”

“This is not something we should go about lightly.”

Shaw frowned. It seemed easy for her. “It’s the only way.”

“There will be larger consequences if we make this decision—we need to be ready for that,” Harold said, adamant with his decision.

“Thornhill isn’t gonna make it if we winds up in a war _and_ losing you and Gen in its current state. I didn’t sign up to be a regent when you made me Constable.”

“You’ll do fine as a regent.” For the first time that morning, he smiled. “I know this is our only option, Lady Shaw. I just wanna make sure we’re prepared for what may happen.”

“I’m in.” Shaw took the daggers from the vanity table and handed it to Root, who was relieved to have the familiar weight of the weapons in her grasp again. Shaw’s eyes remained on Harold. “Are you?”

Instead of answering to Shaw, Harold turned to Root. “If we go with your plan, Lady Groves, you will _not_ kill anyone.”

“Please, Harold, call me Root.”

“And neither will you, Lady Shaw.”

“Can’t give you my words there.” Shaw shrugged. “You should take a vacation or whatever.”

“Excuse me?”

“She’s right, Harold,” said Reese. “We have no idea who the traitor is. It’s better to distance yourself from everyone. Go to my manor, stay there until winter’s over. Carter can handle the kingdom from here.”

“But—“

“Do it for Gen.” The little princess meant the world for Reese as well and he wasn’t going to let anything happen to her or Harold. “I can’t stay with you, though.”

“No. No, you’re not.” Root had cut in before Harold could say anything in response. “You’re gonna stay in my castle, big lug.”

Reese cocked a brow, but said nothing. Harold sighed in defeat. There were too many flaws in the plan. He needed to think everything through, but both of his knights were not known to stand still and neither was Root. All he could do was figuring out answers to the glaring questions, one at a time, starting from one that bothered him the most.

“For Lady Shaw to abandon her position and suddenly disappear, how should we explain her absence without raising suspicion?”

Root hummed, running her eyes all over Shaw. “Well…she can try dying first,” she said with a mischievous grin.


	5. Chapter 5

In the light of the betrothal announcement, Lady Groves had fled Thornhill Palace in the subsequent day. Her action bruised King Harold’s pride and so he tasked his most loyal knight, Lord Reese, to chase after her to the Groves Castle. In distress from the threat to her freedom, Lady Groves crossed the border to seek refuge from the wise King Arthur of Samaritan. Or so the rumor went.

In the meantime, Shaw’s ‘death’ was a feat to fulfill. It was impossible to find cadaver of a woman matching her age and appearance in such short notice. Moreover, Harold pointed out the chaos it would cause when Shaw came back from ‘death’ once the mission was accomplished. Root had pouted at the lost chance to test her special cocktail of medicinal substances on Shaw, much to everyone’s questioning quirk of brows. Since they were on a bit of a clock, they ended up altering the plan as they went with it. Which was the reason Shaw, along with Clarke riding by her side, escorted Marquise Shaw home.

At Shaw’s insistence, they continued to travel at night. Temperature had dropped with winter coming soon. The chilly wind followed even after they entered the woods. Marquise Shaw had retorted about how foolish her stubborn daughter was before shutting the carriage window with a slam. Shaw paid no heed at her mother, keeping her eyes on the shadows that had followed them since they left the palace. It was almost time.

“Clarke?”

Clarke stifled a yawn and blinked the sleepiness away from her eyes, trying to appear less unprofessional in front of her mentor. “Yes?”

Shaw took a small roll of parchment and passed it to her. Shaw’s family seal, instead of Thornhill’s Coat of Arms, carved on the red wax that sealed the paper. Clarke stared at it with puzzlement. Was she to go back to the palace to deliver the message? They were still four days away from Shaw Castle—it was located the farthest from the palace, guarding the kingdom’s biggest port.

“Whatever happens to me, get the fastest pigeon in Thornhill to send it to the Lion of the Sea.”

Clarke’s eyes widened. “The pirate?”

In lieu of an answer, Shaw gave her a lopsided grin. “You’ll make a good knight one day, Lady Griffin.”

The use of her title and the might be compliment bewildered Clarke even more, because Shaw wasn’t known to be big on words. It warmed her cheeks. She ducked her head, busying herself with tucking the letter into her pocket to hide her blush. Overhead, the cloud crawled to cover the moon and left them in total darkness if not for the torches on the carriage.

Shaw signaled at the shadows. Cloaked figure on black steed blocked the path, pushing them to a jerky halt. Another emerged from the side and rendered the coachman unconscious with a jab on the neck. Clarke drew her sword, ready to fight, but Shaw gave her horse a discreet smack on the side of its hind leg. It went wild in surprise, galloping down the path with Clarke fighting to control it. With the squire out of the way, Shaw drew out her scimitar to parry the horsed attacker’s blow. Just in time, Marquise Shaw poked her head out to see what was going on. Her shrill scream scared off the birds nesting in the surrounding trees.

Aware of her mother being the sole spectator, Shaw loosened the hold on her sword on purpose. “Make it look good,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Sorry Shaw.”

He pushed and twisted. The edges of their blades slid against each other. Shaw’s scimitar slipped out of her grasp and fell to the ground with a clank. Her horse moved backward, but not far enough to avoid her from getting punched square on the gut. Without her usual armor, the hit knocked the wind out of her. She doubled over. She didn’t lose consciousness, but hunched over her ride as though she did. Her horse neighed in distress. Before it could take off in panic, the other assailant calmed it down and mounted on its back behind Shaw’s slack form.

Marquise Shaw had flung the carriage’s door open. With dress bunched on one hand and eating-knife wielded as a weapon on the other, she marched forward against the cloaked figures. They heard her cry of attack. The one holding Shaw hostage strode past her, while his friend intercepted the incoming attack with ease. He pushed her down with his sheathed sword, letting the heavy wardrobe and gravity to work against her, before following after his friend.

They slowed down when they no longer heard Marquise Shaw’s angry yell of expletives. A sharp turn led them away from the palace and into the direction of the Groves’ land. When Shaw was no longer dizzy from their little performance, she took over the rein. Her mother’s shout rang inside her head as they speeded up.

“Now I see where you got your peachy personality,” Fusco said from behind Shaw. A teasing smirk was on his lips even though he held on her cloak for his dear life. “You gonna tell me what’s going on or I’ll have to kidnap the king next?”

Shaw said nothing, neither did Reese. Fusco didn’t ask again, only rolling his eyes at their usual secretiveness. They liked him for that.

 

* * *

 

It was still dark outside when Reese and Fusco dropped Shaw on the border. They proceeded to the Groves Castle while she went to the carriage waiting for her in a walking distance. The coachman—or coachwoman, as she figured out when she was close enough to make out the feature—motioned to the back of the carriage, where she found Root was waiting.

Root lit up when she saw Shaw. “Did you miss me?”

Her voice pealed through the quietness of the early morning and brought a small shiver to Shaw’s spine. She didn’t bother to roll her eyes at her anymore. Root offered her long-daggers and Shaw took them without a word. The double swords were quite redundant. Although seeing that Root, donned in yet another nice dress in a darker shade of blue and appeared to be every inch of a noble woman that she was, couldn’t bring them herself. Shaw couldn’t bring her own scimitar either, in fear of raising suspicion. Thus Shaw had to endure bringing Root’s daggers around.

Satisfied with the position of the additional weights on her hips—she still had to keep reminding herself of their presence to avoid knocking on things as she moved—Shaw turned to climb into the carriage. A hand on her shoulder halted her.

“Wait,” Root said.

Another came up to Shaw’s line of sight. She grabbed on the wrist when her eyes caught a glint of metal.

Root wiggled the small knife she had pulled out from God-knows-where. Her bottom lip protruded in a slight pout. “Trust me.”

After a prolonged glare and a warning squeeze, Shaw let go of her. With deliberate slowness, Root moved her hand to the back of Shaw’s head. She was aware of the wary gaze following her every motion and the hand grasping at the hilt of a dagger. With a flick of her wrist, Root cut off the band that tied Shaw’s hair together. Dark tresses tumbled free and Shaw’s frown deepened. Knife exchanged with long fingers, combing through the locks to make them less messy. Root then took off her blue scarf and looped it around Shaw’s neck. It covered the lower half of her face.

“Safety first.” Root grinned, satisfied with her handiwork. “We’re gonna have so much fun together.”

This time Shaw did roll her eyes. The scarf hid the small grin she had.

They settled inside the carriage afterwards, sitting across each other in the limited space. The daggers stuck out at odd angle when Shaw took the seat so she had to set them aside. The same easy solution couldn’t solve the problem of their legs brushing every time the carriage hit a bump on the road. Root took a little too much glee from it, but Shaw had another more pressing concern.

“If this is the afterlife.” Shaw growled as she scratched her thigh. The cheap legging she had changed into earlier was irritating her skin. She might have taken the life and accommodation that was available for a woman of her status for granted, but she would kill to get a less itchy clothes. “It sucks.”

Root ran her hand down Shaw’s thigh and gave a fleeting squeeze on her knee. “I’ll do yours if you do mine,” she said with a wiggle of her brows and suggestive smirk. She retracted her hand before it got swatted off, chuckling at Shaw’s grumpy huff.

 

* * *

 

Samaritan Palace was located on the other side of the island. It took two days and three nights to get there. They had about a week before the first fall of the snow, so the coachwoman—Indra, as Root later introduced—had been ordered to drive as though the hounds of hell were on their heels. Shaw took turn driving, but Indra refused to share the carriage with Root and remained on the wide driver perch upfront with Shaw. Since she was a woman of few words, a trained warrior of sort, they hit it off pretty well in the shared silence. They didn’t stop unless necessary. The carriage was stocked with food and some nice drink to keep everyone warm. With the speed at which they were travelling, it would cut down the journey to two days.

On the second morning, they took a stop at a tavern for the much needed wash. It was packed with Samaritan’s cavalry who were getting drinks before resuming the march to the border. They had encountered groups of foot soldiers and pike-men going to the same direction throughout the way, but this was by far the biggest confirmation that Samaritan was indeed going to attack Thornhill instead of just strengthening their guard on the border. Shaw ignored Root’s smug _I-told-you-so_ look and proceeded to enter the place. Indra had gone in first without a problem, but Root’s class and the obvious show of it might raise problems, even more if the kingdom she belonged to was found out.

“Stay behind me,” Shaw warned as they halted by the door. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

For once, Root did as she was told. She put everyone they met at ease with a smile, but her identity wasn’t the only one being tested. Shaw’s too. She had left the scarf in the carriage, but the daggers were present on each side of her hips, ready to be used at any given time. As usual, though, most of the attention was on to the fact that they were the rare females among a bunch of men.

Lucky for them, due to the current trend of nobilities having foreign-blood advisors, Shaw’s presence by Root’s side didn’t attract questions. Neither did the use of her given name. Root had been going on it since they left Thornhill— _Sameen this, Sameen that_. From the way Shaw didn’t raise any protest about it, it was safe to say that she liked it too.

While Shaw’s identity remained safe, the three of them did, however, stick out like sore thumbs through the meal they took with soldiers roaming inside the tavern. It wasn’t until they were about to leave—Indra was already outside to prepare the horses while Root paid—that a brave soul dared to make a move to approach Root. He intended to take her hand to give a proper greeting and the dagger landed just millimeters away from his fingers, but he got the message.

“Okay, this advisor...thing, not really working out,” Shaw said as they walked out.

“Sorry, Sam. You need an identity, and you should’ve trusted me. I told you, it’d be much easier to pose as my handmaiden.”

“Handmaiden doesn’t carry swords,” Shaw deadpanned.

“But they do help aid their lady. With dressing, bathing, and other...personal activities.” Root winked. “For what it’s worth, though, I really like the new look.”

“I could stab you with your own swords.” Shaw huffed. “Enough already.”

Root continued smiling despite the seriousness of the threat.

 

* * *

 

Guards stopped them at the gate. Even though Root’s identity as the Groves’ widow had checked out, they were still required to continue on foot. Root dismissed Indra at that point, telling her that she no longer required her service and that she was free to do as she wished with the carriage and horses. Indra followed the order with impassive acknowledgement. Shaw suspected the coachwoman wouldn’t be far gone, should they needed an escape route.

Root’s presence as a lady from Thornhill in the heart of Samaritan had rattled more than a few cages. They even got a special treatment because of it. Four guards were designated to escort them, staying not far enough but also not close enough to eavesdrop either.

“Relax, Sameen.”

Even under such disgraceful circumstance they were forced to abide, not to mention the constant danger they were facing for being inside the enemy’s territory, Root stayed true to her persona as a lady. She held her chin high, a constant smile gracing her lips. She looked around their surrounding, appreciating the view whilst doing silent observation of it. There were no civilian in sight, all uniformed soldiers. They were agitated with her nonchalant attitude and Shaw would hate to admit that she felt the same.

“Why Root?” Shaw asked. It could as well be their last chance to talk. The fact that she knew next to nothing about the reformed killer-for-hire, whose outrageous plan she had followed on her own free will, disturbed her a little.

There was a long moment of contemplation. Root played with the new ring donning her left pinky, an additional to the signet ring—the proof of her identity as a member and also the current head of the Groves family—sitting around her ring finger. Mounted atop of it was a decent size amethyst, the gem that was used as protection amulets by soldiers as it was believed to heal and keep the wearer cool-headed. The precious stone turned into a lighter shade of bluish violet when it caught the morning light.

“It was a nickname from my mother.”

The answer came so soft that Shaw had to strain her ears to hear it, but she raised her brow all the same. She had heard parents giving affectionate nicknames for their offspring, from sweet treats to ridiculous animals, but ‘root’ was an odd one nonetheless.

Root was amused with Shaw’s reaction. As their walk had yet to come to an end, she decided to entertain her some more with a short tale. “When I was six summers old, I ate dropwort leaf by accident. My village was a small one; mother had to bring me to the next one to find a healer. He said I won’t make it through the night, but I did.” The poisonous plan then became her trademark and the rest was history.

Shaw nodded. If she were to die here, with no proper burial ceremony and her soul had to wander around for eternity, at least she knew who she would haunt.

 

* * *

 

King Arthur was unavailable at the moment, or so the herald told them before he announced their arrival in the Great Hall. In his place, Justiciar Greer welcomed them. Shaw remained quiet, standing close behind Root as any good protector would do for their charge. Greer was an old man, way older than Harold. He no longer possessed the strength to lift a sword in a fight, but he still could order the guards to kill them with just a raise of his hand.

“Lord Greer.” Root curtsied.

Greer took her hand and gave it a chaste kiss. “Lady Groves.” He didn’t let go of her yet, holding her in place. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”

Shaw hid her laugh behind a cough when Root feigned distress. There were genuine unshed tears on her eyes. Greer had to let go of her hand to give her a handkerchief. Root turned her face away from his concerned gaze to dab at the corner of her eyes. Shaw was glad she had the scarf back on, because Root sneaked a wink at her and she couldn’t stop herself from grinning and rolling her eyes at the same time. It was entertaining to watch Root shedding her skin and becoming a different person. No wonder she could stay in Thornhill for so long without raising suspicion, even scoring the hearts of many.

“As you’d probably heard, King Harold proposed to me.”

“I did hear so, my dear. It was quite a surprise.”

“An unpleasant one, dare I say.” Her voice wavered as she continued the act. “He is persistent in pursuing a marriage, even after I turned him down. I have no choice but to leave Thornhill. I wish to talk to King Arthur, but...”

“Ah...as you’d have noticed, Samaritan is in such situation that requires all of our great king’s attention.”

“You meant the war you’re going to start with Thornhill?”

Shaw tensed up, not unlike the guards around them. They relaxed back after a dismissive sweep of Greer’s hand.

“I’m afraid we can’t let you and your advisor leave Samaritan now, Lady Groves.”

He smiled and Root returned with one of her own.

“I never plan to.” Root shrugged. “I know what we’re walking into once we passed the border and we continued still. In fact, I’m here to offer my alliance to Samaritan.” Greer had his brows rose higher with each word she said. “King Harold is the most progressive ruler of this age, but the war and the loss of his wife might have impaired his judgment. The way he pursued me like a savage, sending his guard dog to drag me back to the palace to be wedded...” She did a well-timed shiver. “I believe he no longer fit to rule.”

It earned a nod of sympathy from Greer. Root was that good at acting or she had meant everything she said. Either way, Shaw had a sudden longing to punch her for stating such malicious opinion about her king.

Root continued on, “Instead of dispersing your soldiers along the border to attack simultaneously, which I’m sure is what you planned to do, you can order them to enter Thornhill right through its front door—my castle. I’ll inform my knights to let them pass without a fight.”

Greer hummed. “And what do you wish for in return for your kindness, Lady Groves?”

“Thornhill’s biggest port.”

It took every fiber in Shaw’s being to stop herself from doing any harm to Root and their mission. It was getting harder if the woman insisted on grating on her nerves.

“Consider it’s yours, my lady.” Greer took Root’s hand and squeezed it. A wide smile stretched his lips thin. “You’re most welcome to stay and watch Samaritan bring Thornhill down to its heel.”

“It’ll be my pleasure, Lord Greer.”

 

* * *

 

For the next days, Root got stuck playing the role of a guest of honor. She was to look pretty and harmless while staying by Greer’s side most of the time. It restricted her movement, but granted her unfettered access to a great deal of information. On the other hand, Shaw had more freedom to roam about. Root had made sure she mentioned Shaw’s mixed lineage at every opportunity she got, yet many still mistook her homeland as the kingdom located on the peninsula in southwestern Europe. She presumed the people did share similar physical traits, so she made no effort to correct the assumption. The palace workers warmed up to her wandering, even though her cat-like habit of creeping up inside a room has scared many poor souls. She didn’t speak much yet she was more relatable than the ‘beautiful lady in pretty dress’ whom she was ‘guarding’. Her aloof attitude was attributed as a soldier thing anyway. Still, neither of them had luck in finding anything significant.

Shaw hadn’t gone to the training ground throughout the duration of their stay in Samaritan. She preferred to train with Root in the safe vicinity of their shared quarter—an accommodation to Lady Groves’ personal demand—and not giving away the fact that she wasn’t apt to wield two swords at once. The blissful pretense had come to an end when Constable Rousseau arrived for one last meeting with Greer before she led the army to invade Thornhill in a few days. She persisted to do the afternoon training with her, using real swords, and Shaw couldn’t decline.

“Aren’t you going to use the other one too?” Rousseau asked with a taunting smirk. “Or is it just for decoration?”

Shaw drew out the second sword, all the while cursing under her breath. Hersh had trained her to switch between hands, in case her dominant one suffered injury during a battle. The skill was handy, but not enough to sort her out of the mess that was using two swords at once. Despite the trouble, she held on against Rousseau just fine for most of it.

It was clear that Rousseau was sizing up her ability. If Shaw let it go any longer, she would figure out that she had been using most of her right hand, both to attack and deflect. She couldn’t work on both weapons together, no matter how agile she was in swordsmanship. In a desperate attempt to put a faster end to their training, she charged forward, raining attack after attack whilst disregarding her own defense. Rousseau parried most of them.

“What’s your lady’s intention?”

Shaw deflected a slash aiming at her neck, raising a brow while doing so. A bead of sweat diluted the dried blood on a cut above it and she paid no heed to the stinging pain. Her swords made clanking noise each time they met Rousseau in the middle.

Assuming Shaw’s background as the cause of her slow comprehension, Rousseau repeated the question with slight exasperation, “What does Lady Groves expect to gain from working with us?” She took a step away, prowling to find an opening for the next attack.

“The control of Thornhill’s biggest port?”

Rousseau laughed as she came onto Shaw again. This time she combined a swing of her sword and a punch to the gut. Both missed their marks. Shaw hit her outstretched arm with the butt of a hilt and she cursed out loud.

“She paid me to protect her,” Shaw said. “Her political move is none of my damn business.”

Rousseau agreed to it with a grunt. It was the end of their short conversation, but not for their fight. They continued until they were too worn out and had to settle on a draw.

 

* * *

 

Later that night, Root was stunned to find Shaw sitting on the balcony when she entered. They had met at dinner. Shaw and Rousseau had cuts and bruises all over their bodies and newfound respect for each other after their afternoon training. Root was aware of those developments already. What surprised her was the fact that Shaw was there, in their quarter, in the first place.

Shaw had only come into the room long after she had gone to bed and roused faster than she did. It was for the sake of keeping her modesty, she assumed. They had shared a sleeping quarter before, back in the tavern on their way to Thornhill Palace, and had seen each other in their under clothing for certain. Shaw had no problem then, walking around only in her tunic that stopped mid-thighs. Root recalled the weight of her stare making her skin prickle, stripping off the underdress she wore. Now Shaw looked up from the sword she was cleaning and the intensity of her gaze scared her.

“Rousseau asked about you.” Shaw’s voice was hoarse from the night air. “She’s in bed with Greer. Let me just kill ‘em now, save us some time to get the hell outta here.”

“We still don’t know who the traitor yet, Shaw.”

“Just to confirm...you’re saying I can’t kill Greer or that blonde bitch, _yet_. So when do I get to kill them?”

“Keep it down, Sameen. If we kill them now, then we might as well kill Harry and ourselves.”

“Fine.” Shaw sighed in frustration. “But just remember I told you so when all this goes downhill and we end up in the dungeon, waiting for our certain death.”

Root understood Shaw’s dissatisfaction with the lack of progress. She too felt the same. They had a plan and they stuck with it, even when it was too late for them to make an escape to safety. With only a few days left, it was their heads that was going to be on the table first. In about two days, snow would start falling in the evening or as late as midnight. On the next morning, Samaritan’s army would begin marching into Thornhill’s territory. Greer then would find out about Root’s dishonesty regarding their alliance agreement as Reese led her knights to intercept the soldiers on her castle. By now, they had ran out of time to stop the war from taking place, or even to save themselves, but they still have a shot at saving Harold. Root knew that, as Shaw did too. The situation was still frustrating nonetheless.

Shaw carried on cleaning the other sword. From the corner of her eyes, she saw Root leaning against the stone banister to watch the lights coming from the ships that sailed through the dark ocean. Shaw liked doing the same out here. The sound of waves crashing and the smell of salt reminded her of home. Also because it had been days since she got ‘abducted’ and Clarke should have done her bidding to send the letter. It should have been received and yet she still hadn’t seen sign of a certain ship on the sea. Each morning, before the sun rises, she looked out for it on the horizon, but no such luck so far.

She had finished cleaning both swords and Root was still rooted on her spot. “Why are you here?” she asked.

“She needs me to.”

“She?”

Something she spotted on the sky had made Root grin. She took out a knife and a small package, nondescript enough to entice Shaw to join her. Shaw hovered close to watch her peeling off the wrapper. A chunk of chicken from dinner came into view and Shaw’s brows knitted together. Before she had a chance to ask about it, a gush of wind hit them as a familiar falcon landed. Its sharp talons dug into the edge of the stone banister. It tilted its head to one side as it scrutinized Shaw with beady eyes. Once regarded as harmless, it turned its attention to its master and squeaked. Root cut off a piece of meat for it.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Feeding my bird?”

Root had said like it was the most natural thing in the world for her to do. It was, if they weren’t playing charade in the enemy’s den. Shaw wasn’t even aware that the bird had been following them all along.

“What is it doing here?”

“She. It’s a she.”

Shaw made a face. She didn’t bother to correct her word.

“She helps Indra keeping up on us.” Root gave the bird another piece. “If I don’t feed her for two nights in a row, she’ll fly straight back to my castle. Indra and the big lug will know that we’ve failed...and possibly dead.”

It was smart, Shaw had to admit, but it was still a bird by the end of the day and a hungry one at that. She narrowed her eyes as it devoured the rest of the chicken in a short time. “Keep her away from my food,” she said before retreating back inside.

Root chuckled. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Sameen.”

 

* * *

 

Root tried to dig up more information from Greer, to no avail. After a lot of subtle nudging, he briefed her on war strategy, once. When she pointed out the statistical fault on it, he assured her that it was, in his own words, “being taken care of”. While Root spent her time dealing with the human factor, Shaw sneaked into almost every room in the palace. Out of desperation, she even spent a whole night combing through the books in the library. They also looked out for King Arthur’s whereabouts, since he was the only one able to put a stop to Greer’s plan. As far as their snooping around went, the king was very much alive somewhere. If he was dead, Greer would have been regent instead of justiciar.

In the end, they had exhausted the search. Nothing substantial regarding an ulterior motive to the war. Nothing unusual in reports and correspondences. Nothing mentioned a Samaritan’s agent in Thornhill’s court. Nothing pointing out that Greer was planning something more malicious than their suicidal attack. Yet like an old fool, he was so sure of Samaritan’s victory. Neither Shaw or Root believed he was _that_ stupid.

After watching the first fall of snow on their balcony, hearts heavy with dread of failure, Shaw’s suggestion to kill Greer had won its weight. Eliminating him might be their last chance to stop Samaritan. Root was going to slip in dropwort into his drink right when an unexpected guest joined them in the middle of breakfast.

“Lady Groves?”

Root suppressed her shock with an easy smile. She remembered the man as one of the people Harold had introduced her at the ball, a baron from his council. “Baron Marcus.” She nodded at him with recognition.

Marcus returned the gesture as he took a seat across her on the dining table. “You’re...here...” He set the napkin on his lap as he narrowed his eyes at Greer, who was sitting at the head of the table, with uneasiness. “Why is she here?” He didn’t even bother to lower his voice.

Root, pretending she didn’t hear the accusation in his question or feel the suspicion gaze directed at her, continued eating.

“Lady Groves is our guest.” Greer was displeased with Marcus’ lack of manner and directed the topic away from Root. “How’s the situation at Thornhill?”

Marcus was nonplussed. He stole a cautious glance at Root until Greer urged him to answer. “’side from her sudden departure—” like a child, he insisted on not acknowledging her presence, much to her amusement “—the king retreated to Reese Manor for the winter. Shaw got abducted while escorting her mum home.”

“The constable? Abducted?” Root acted surprised. “It must be horrible!”

Still a bit uncomfortable, Marcus only nodded at her. “Reese’s been pointed as temporary constable, but Carter hasn’t given up on finding Shaw. Morgan got chained home. The Lord must be on our side ‘cause Thornhill’s in chaos!” His expression lighted up and he tipped his glass toward Greer in salutation. “They won’t realize the princess’s gone ‘til it’s too late!”

Root’s heart was beating so hard in her ears, the sound drowned out Greer’s reply. All blood seemed to drain from her at the mention of Genrika. She was quick to gather her bearing and proceeded with the meal as though Marcus hadn’t bestowed her with the answer she had been seeking for long. She kept up the upward tug on the corners of her mouth, ate her fruits, and nodded at cue while her mind wandered elsewhere.

Genrika was Samaritan’s target all along, the secret weapon to defeat Thornhill. They wouldn’t need a war to take over because Harold would give up everything for his daughter. She was at the Reese Manor with him, which meant so did whoever that was going to take her, and no one was aware of this fact. There was still time to send a warning message—lock the royal family and let nobody came near them until Reese came to protect them. Root had to tell Shaw as soon as possible.

“Very well, Baron Marcus. I’d like to hear more—“ Greer noticed that Root had stopped eating altogether and was as pale as the snow itself. “Are you alright, Lady Groves?”

“It must be the cold. I’m never fond of winter.” Root grimaced. She dabbed her lips before setting her napkin aside and stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen...”

“Of course, of course.” Greer also stood up out of politeness, unlike Marcus who continued munching. “I hope to see you later at noon. The first report shall come by then.”

Root gave them a tight smile and curtsied before retreating herself out of the dining hall. Once the door was closed behind her, she rushed down the long hallway to find Shaw. She had skipped breakfast on purpose and Root knew where she was. She took a turn and went out of the back entrance of the palace. She waved off the guard who offered to accompany her, telling him that she needed some time alone. He didn’t get a chance to protest because she had sped up to the direction of the stable.

The snow hadn’t accumulated much since last night, but it was cold enough to fog up her breathing. She found Shaw conversing with a stable boy. His eyes were drawn away from the pouch of coins on Shaw’s hand and widened in fear when he saw her coming their way. She didn’t spare a glance at him.

“May I speak with you, in private?”

Root had said with urgency. She was out without a cloak. The hem of her dress was wet and dirty with mud. Her cheeks flushed and her breath came in panting. One look at her and Shaw darted forward, not giving enough time for the boy to stutter an excuse. To his disappointment, Shaw put the pouch back into her pocket and urged Root to walk with her.

They weren’t far away from the stable when Root whispered, “It’s Genrika.”

For a moment, Shaw stood frozen. They were out in the open, where soldiers and workers alike might walk up to them. On the distance, the sentinel guards on the palace’s back entrance were huddling together, nodding and stealing glances at their direction. It was no longer safe to stay at where they were. Shaw tugged Root and didn’t stop until they reached the back of a nearest building. They were once again hidden behind the chapel, only this time Shaw was shielding Root instead of shoving her onto the wall.

“They’re going to take her. I met Marcus—“

“Baron Marcus? He is the traitor?” Shaw scowled. She always hated that weasel with mustache. “And he’s here?”

Root bobbed her head. “If he sees you...”

She didn’t need to say more—she _couldn’t_ say anything more than a yelp. Someone—a guard—had come up from behind and yanked her aside. It happened so fast Shaw didn’t manage to stop him. She took out a sheathed sword from its post on her belt. She was going to toss it to Root, but the man holding her hostage had seized her arm and held a dagger against her neck.

“I won’t do that if I were you,” he warned.

Root recognized him from his voice. He was the same guard who had offered to escort her earlier. A lad with thin built. She could take him down with one hand, but she needed a distraction to be able to do so.

When she saw the look on Root’s face, Shaw smirked. “ _I_ won’t do that if I were you.”

His grip lessened and Root took the chance to stomp on his foot and elbowed his side with her free arm. While he doubled in pain, she slipped out of his grasp. She spun around him and twisted his arm behind his back until a loud crack resonated. He dropped to the ground, howling in pain as he grabbed at his dislocated shoulder. His dagger lay forgotten.

However, they were far from being safe. Almost as soon as their comrade’s cry pierced through the air, two more men popped up. One grabbed Root; she kneed him on the crotch. The other came charging at Shaw. She used her small stature and his momentum to fling him over her shoulder. This one was well-trained and not as easy to give up compared to his mate. He came back up, swinging a punch at her jaw. She returned the favor onto his gut, followed with hauling his shoulders down so his chest greeted her knee, twice. Too bad, he was as stubborn as a cockroach. He proceeded on fending her off from helping Root as more and more men joined in to tackle her down. Kicks and punches being thrown around even as Root had three men restraining her.

“Really, Lady Groves. There’s such a thing as nobility in defeat,” Greer said. He had half a dozen armed guards backing him up and Root’s glare didn’t change the fact that she had been defeated in an unfair fight. “I have everything I need to defeat Thornhill, and no amount of kicking will change that.”

“You don’t have Genrika yet.”

“Exactly.” Greer chuckled. “But I might have someone as precious as the princess. Shall we cut the chase?”

Greer beckoned the man away from Shaw. He retreated, picking the fallen dagger and handed it to Greer before he joined the rest. Greer had ordered all of the guards to stay out of Shaw’s way; she noticed it too. He had seen the way his guests interacted with each other and he was positive that the outcome of this encounter would be in his favor.

“You’re free to leave, my dear Sameen...or shall I address you as Constable Shaw?”

The men pushed Root down to kneel, Greer towering behind her. He tucked the wayward hair away from her right ear. She jerked her head away from his touch, but one guard was quick to keep her head in place. Shaw grasped her sword tighter, dreading the worst to happen to Root.

“I never feel civilized negotiating from the end of a blade. Either end,” Greer said with genuine distaste as he eyed the dagger in his hand. “But sometimes, gaudy displays of violence are necessary. You know that. As the constable, you must be familiar with the way traitor is handled. Cut off their ears, their tongue, gouge out their eyes.” He tugged out Root’s ear-shell and slipped the blade between the fold. “Now...you may stay here with Lady Groves, or you may watch me cut her ear off before you leave and bring it with you as memento.”

“Go!” Root urged.

To prove his word, Greer put a small pressure on the dagger. Blood trickled down the side of Root’s head as the sharp blade cut her skin and flesh. Still, she looked up at Shaw with defiance burning bright in her eyes.

“There’s still time, go!”

Shaw took a step back, weighing out options she didn’t quite have a real choice at. She could leave, steal a horse, find Indra, but they wouldn’t make it alive through the soldier-infested border. She had no idea how to get that bird of Root, let alone making it send a message for her. Or she could stay in exchange of Root’s life. After all, Harold hadn’t put an end to her initial mission to guard Lady Groves. She was still her responsibility and Shaw didn’t run out of a fight with tail tucked between her legs. She was the commander of Thornhill’s armed forces. She didn’t need protection, _she_ did the protecting.

Hence instead of turning on her heel and get the hell out of there, Shaw sheathed her sword and raised her arms. She went down on her knee, one after another. Her whole attention was on Root, who was staring back unseeing at her.

“You’re right, Lady Groves. You’re just a woman to be wedded to satisfy the demand of Thornhill’s Great Council. But you, my dear, brought us one of King Harold’s most valuable assets—his loyal officer and closest friend.” Greer flashed them a smile, which neither women took notice of. “He will give up his position to save you, Constable Shaw. So Lady Groves, thank you for leading Constable Shaw to us. We couldn’t have done it without you. I’ll make sure the rest of your stay will be as comfortable as possible.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firesteel: a piece of high carbon or alloyed steel from which sparks are struck by the sharp edge of chert or similar rock.
> 
> Caravel: a small, highly maneuverable vessel used for oceanic exploration voyages.
> 
> Balinger: a clinker-built oared vessel, initially with a single mast but larger ones had a second mast. Used both for trade and warfare. Fast and with the flexibility of oars and sails for propulsion, they were commonly used by pirates.
> 
> Hoy: a single-masted vessel used as coaster or on short sea routes.
> 
>  _Konbanwa_ : “good evening”.
> 
> Fearnought: a waist or hip-length jacket made of thick wool.
> 
> Hemlock ( _Conium maculatum_ ; poison hemlock; spotted hemlock): poisonous plant. Sedative, antispasmodic, and in sufficient doses acts as paralyser. In poisonous doses cause complete paralysis, death results from asphyxia.
> 
> Neep ( _Bryonia dioica_ ; Bryony; English mandrake; wild hops): poisonous plant. Once used as powerful purgative. Its presence in dwale recipe is likely the result of mandrake’s absence.
> 
> Henbane ( _Hyoscyamus niger_ ; common henbane): poisonous plant. Antispasmodic, hypnotic, and mild diuretic.
> 
> Eysyl: one of several varieties of vinegar commonly used during medieval times.
> 
> Dwale: herbal anesthetic.
> 
> Bodkin point: long, thin arrowhead. The design was once suggested as a means to penetrate armour. Actually used to extend range or as a cheaper and simpler alternative to the broadhead. 
> 
> Broadhead: flat arrowhead with wide, razor-sharp edges that cause massive bleeding in the victim.
> 
>  **Warning** : blood, murders, and questionable medical practices.

The dungeon was damp, cold, and smelt of piss. Iron bars exchanged the chains around their wrists. Even though it wasn’t noon yet, it was dark. The lone candle perched on the wall between the cells was the only source of light. They got stuffed into one cell, despite the other one seemed to be empty. Shaw scanned the small space with disdain, ignoring the bucket on the corner and the bed made of hay on the other, where Root had taken a seat on.

Contrary to what Shaw had expected, Root remained silent. She put the unpleasant scent, the lavatory situation, the sleeping arrangement, and Root’s odd attitude to the far back of her mind. Root didn’t flinch away when she checked on her injured ear. Not even after she moved so close, her breaths caressing Root’s cheek as she squinted to make out the state of the injury as best as could with the lack of lighting. Aside from the reddened ear shell, it had stopped bleeding. Shaw ripped off a part of her sleeve and used it as a makeshift dressing.

Shaw’s fingertips were cold and it snapped Root out of whatever daze she was in. Breath hitched in her throat as Shaw ran her fingers along the length of her irritated ear shell. She grasped her wrist, holding her hand in place as she leaned further to the touch. She sighed and closed her eyes, reveling in the contact. No teasing, no flirty _I love it when you play physician_ , nothing.

“Hey, Lady Groves,” Shaw said, causing Root to look up at her. “Where’s the perky killer? You’re creepin’ me out.”

The sarcastic comment earned a smile from Root, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m touched you stay for me.” There was no trace of teasing in her words, only heartfelt gratitude and something else Shaw didn’t want to address.

Shaw shrugged. “Not like I have a real choice.”

Her palm had warmed up, but it stayed cupping the side of Root’s head. It was only when Root began shivering that she retracted her hand. Frowning, she moved away. She ignored the small sound of protest Root made and darted to the door to hang her cloak before its wetness could seep to her tunic. The light in the room was cut off into minimum, which Root was grateful for because the next thing Shaw said was making her blush.

“Take off your dress.” Shaw rolled her eyes when Root gaped at her. She only knew that because she saw her teeth, though. “It’s wet. Your hair too.”

Still dumbfounded, Root did as she was told. In the meantime, Shaw stripped off the itchy wool that was used to cover the haystack and set it aside. She moved most of the straws on the middle portion onto the foot of the makeshift bed, creating some sort of fort. While digging out the straws, she found a barred window connecting their cell to the next one, but thought nothing of it as she took a seat next to it. Her back against the wall, her legs bent and raised apart from each other. Her own cheeks warmed up when she looked up and saw Root standing in front of her, flushing and unsure of what to do. Root’s underdress was too white in the dark and her dyed hair free of its bun.

“Come here,” Shaw said, patting the space between her legs.

Root hesitated for a second. She settled her back against Shaw, curling to herself with knees tucked on her chest. The position left enough space between their bodies. Shaw sighed, shaking her head at the odd nervousness. Reaching around Root, she took the wool sheet and used it to cover them. Root had no choice but to lean further into Shaw this time.

Shaw had been in this kind of situation for far too many times before. When winter got too cold, it was a common practice to share beds. The barrack couldn’t afford the luxury of having more than one fireplace. Hence before she was made into a knight, she had to sleep with the rest of the pages and squires in a massive dog-pile. It was safe to say that all of them suffered questionable bruises during winters. She also always huddled with Clarke during their overnight hunting escapades in the woods. Even worse, one time she slipped and fell over a river while being in the middle of nowhere and Reese had to spoon her throughout the night. There were fewer clothes involved then. It was necessary for survival, yet it never felt so different now with Root pressing tight against her.

Another shiver wrecked Root’s body. It was all it took for Shaw to wrap her arms around her. Her hands rested the damp patches on Root’s knees, from when she was forced to kneel earlier, and her chin perched on her shoulder. She sniffed at the locks tickling her cheeks, humming in approval. Root smelled better than the room. After awhile, Root relaxed into the embrace. She snuggled even closer, as though she had always belonged there in Shaw’s arms.

“We still don’t know where they’re going to keep Gen,” Shaw said. “But we’re fightin’ our way out of here the first chance we get.”

Root sighed. “Sameen...”

“What?”

“There’s no chance in hell both of us make it out alive,” Root said, resigned. “You should save Genrika while I...” She shook her head, not daring to finish the sentence. “War requires sacrifices...and I know where I am, and where I’m headed.”

Root covered Shaw’s hand that was grasping her knee the moment those words left her. She rubbed her thumb over the skin until the grip loosened and she could set it away. She turned sideways to face Shaw, who was glaring at her. Her eyes were drawn to her lips. If she just leaned forward and tilted her head a little to the side—but with what she was going to say and do, it would only make everything more difficult. She settled on burying her face on the crook of Shaw’s neck instead.

Root twirled the amethyst ring on her finger again. She had shown Shaw the little compartment hidden under the gem and the powdered dropwort’s roots she had put in it. The dosage was just enough to kill an adult. Foreign agents brought poison to kill themselves, should they get caught. It was a fate better than being tortured and to avoid the disrespectful death, being dismembered and all. Root had brought it with no such thought, only for a backup plan, but now she was glad she did.

“After the life I’ve led, a good end would be a privilege.”

Shaw entire body tensed up. Root’s resignation over the situation only made her blood boil.  Her voice became far too loud in the otherwise quiet dungeon. “Seriously, are you about to kill your—“

There was a hefty cough coming from the cell beside theirs. The noise travelled through the small window, making it sounded louder in the silent dungeon, and they jolted away from each other in surprise. Both of them stilled, exchanging cautious look. When the guards left, they had assumed they were alone so they could talk with low voices without it echoed and reach the guards’ upstairs. They were wrong.

“You’re the lady knight who stomped on Harold’s foot, aren’t you?” came the voice of an older man, followed with a new series of cough. “He wanted to make you as one of his officers in the future.” The man chuckled, the sound wet with phlegm. “I think he just have a little crush on you.”

“King Arthur?”

 

* * *

 

They had lost the sense of time. At irregular interval, guard came down to deliver meal and exchange the bucket. Fresh candle would be light up anew, until the untrimmed wick caused it to burn off faster on its own and then it would be total darkness again. They had long learned to detect each other’s presence—not that there was plenty of space to wander off—after a lot of bumping and groping on the first time the candle ran out.

Shaw had discovered a leak on the ceiling—melting snow seeping through the stone wall upstairs. It wasn’t safe, but with the availability of water, they would survive. Food, however, was scarce. The stale bread they were given was rock-hard. They only had enough to stall off hunger, so they didn’t do much, aside from snuggling against each other to keep warm. Every once in a while they take turn to stretch their legs, walking around the cell that was six steps long and four steps wide.

“Are you sure we should bring him?” Root asked in low voice. “With his condition?”

“He’s the only one who can stop Greer.”

“Wh-Who’s there?”

“It’s only me, Arthur,” Shaw answered, frowning. His correct guess of her identity was a one-time thing. “Harold’s, uh, crush.” She gestured at Root, who was fighting to keep herself from laughing at her discomfort, to stay silent.

“Oh... Oh! Right. What’s your name again?”

“Sam. Sam Shaw.”

“Harold is a good young man, you know.”

Root couldn’t help but snort while Shaw rolled her eyes. “Yes, I’m aware,” she said, although the ‘young’ part wasn’t true anymore.

“Has he made you aware of his feelings?” he asked for the fourth time since they woke up. It was one of those times where he was being talkative. “He really should. Time is a fleeting being. Wait! What am I doing here?”

Shaw sighed. “You tell me, Arthur.”

Arthur continued on his rant until it dissolved into incoherent mumbling. At most, he had stayed quiet. When he did talk, it was about things neither woman quite grasped. There was something wrong with him, beside the coughing. It was as though his mind was trapped in the past.

“On good times, he can’t even tell who he is,” Root said. The prior outburst had made her point, but Shaw wasn’t convinced yet. “He gave you his signet ring—“ which he hid in a metal tinderbox of a firesteel and they assumed Greer had been looking for it all along “—some coins, wax, and a ball of yarn.“

“Harold will want me to save his best friend.”

“Harold will want you to save _Genrika_ first.”

It had been the source of their argument as of late, when Root wasn’t insisting on being a martyr. Shaw insisted to help Arthur while Root voted against it. They couldn’t even save themselves yet. However, this time the decision was made for them as many footsteps filled the dungeon. Shaw shot up, Root following suit. They were prepared for a fight, but the guards weren’t coming for them. They came for Arthur, at least some of them do.

“Hey!” Shaw darted to the bar of their cell door, trying to make out what was happening outside and saw Arthur for the first time. He looked ragged, with long bread and unkempt hair, but he was grinning. “Hey! Where are you takin’ him? Hey!”

The guards insisted on ignoring her.

“Vacation!” Arthur cheered. “It’s my yearly vacation!” he said as two guards led him upstairs.

After he was gone, Root said, “I guess that took one problem out of our hands.” She shrugged with ease even though Shaw was glaring at her.

There was movement again, but the men were not leaving. Light flooding the inside of their cell this time, the shadows moved along with the motion of the torch. Shaw had stepped backward, one hand shielding her eyes. It took several blinking for her eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness, but she hadn’t expected a knight among five more guards to crowd the open doorway of their narrow cell. Undernourished, cold, cornered, and weaponless—there was no way they could beat those men and make an escape, even if Root stayed behind as a distraction like she had offered so many times before. There went their plan to fight their way out of the dungeon.

“Step aside, constable,” the knight said, his words tinted with an accent. “Princess Genrika is here and Lord Greer has requested for Lady Groves.”

 

* * *

 

“You look awful, my dear.”

“Being kept in a dungeon will do that to people,” Root said, rolling her eyes. “What do you want, Lord Greer?”

“Princess Genrika is upset and I think a familiar face will stop her from throwing another tantrum.”

Root scoffed, not buying his excuse. She knew the princess only for days and never spent a one-on-one time with her. If anything, it was Shaw who should be on her place at the moment. But her cover had been blown and Greer was aware of what she was capable of. As long as he didn’t know Root’s real identity, then—

“You’ve managed to wipe out an entire village, Lady Groves.”

Root schooled her expression to betray nothing. She didn’t know if Greer knew for sure or was trying to fish a confirmation, but she wasn’t going to admit anything.

Greer grinned, all teeth and lips, as though he had expected her reaction. “A commoner getting into the rank of nobilities through marriage. I believed you’d also disposed of your husband. And within a couple of years, you captured the attention of Thornhill’s Great Council and subsequently got engaged with the king. Now you have the constable under your spell. I could use someone with such capabilities.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because we both know it’s the only option you have, beside death.”

Root set her lips in a thin line.

“Perhaps you’ll reconsider my offer. Take your time; at least until King Harold agrees to surrender. If by then you haven’t changed your mind, then you’d have to join Constable Shaw in the afterlife.”

Once he was done talking, he waved a dismissive hand at Root. She presumed the guards would bring her to Genrika, but they brought her to the bathroom first. A maid no older than fifteen helped her scrubbed herself clean, while the men lined outside the door. Greer had learned his lesson—too good, it seemed. With Genrika in mind, Root didn’t even try to escape. The young maid was timid as she aided her on getting dressed in pants, tunic, and a simple cape, as per her request. She couldn’t stand being trapped in another dress, not when she would have to fight her way out soon.

While she was escorted back to the guest room she had occupied before, she couldn’t help but think about Shaw. She snapped out of her thought when they arrived in front of the door and heard the muffled sobs. Before she could do or say anything, a guard shoved her inside. The door slammed shut and barred behind her.

The first thing Root noticed was the dark sky outside. Snow had stopped falling for the moment; a thicker layer had accumulated outside. It had been far too long since she could appreciate such mundane view, but the night sky wasn’t so different from the darkness in the dungeon and her attention was drawn to the center of the room.

Genrika was sitting on the middle of the bed, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her dress. When her eyes met Root’s, she wailed. Root stood still on her spot, back leaning against the door and arms crossed in front of her chest. She watched as Genrika cried her eyes out. When the princess realized that Root wasn’t going to come and coddle her, there was an abrupt halt on her cry. Root’s indifference somehow affronted her, but it put an effective stop on her tears.

Only when the sniffling had lessened and the hiccups came far in-between that Root pushed off from the door. She took a seat on the foot of the bed. Her calf tucked under her other knee as she turned sideways to face Genrika. The princess was looking at her with red-rimmed, swollen eyes.

“Remember me?”

Genrika nodded. A small hiccup escaped her throat. “Sam.”

Root’s lips curled up in a smile. After a moment of hesitance, she reached over to smooth down Genrika’s wild curls and noticed the disproportion on it. A bunch of locks had been cut off, no doubt under Greer’s order to be sent as proof to Harold. She was relieved he hadn’t cut off her finger, signet ring and all.

“We will get out of here,” Root said. Genrika was staring back at her, brows knitted together. “We have to get Sam first then we can go home together, okay?”

The mention of the other Sam seemed to explain everything Genrika needed to know. She mumbled a tired agreement as she crawled to climb on Root’s lap and proceeded to bury her head on her chest. Root remained frozen, until it was obvious that the princess didn’t plan to move away any time soon and she sighed in defeat. Genrika hadn’t stir while she moved them under the covers.

Snow had begun falling again outside and the candles had burned off halfway. Root lay awake, staring at shadows dancing on the ceiling. She thought about burning the room to create distraction, if only it didn’t put Genrika in danger and the big possibility of it turning into a suicidal act. She also thought of Shaw, being alone to fight off the cold in the dungeon. For the first time in days, Root couldn’t sleep. She was sure it had everything to do with not having her arms around Shaw.

 

* * *

 

Greer allowed Root to take dinner to Shaw every night. No contact, no talking, wrist shackled and guards accompanied her every time. Root was aware that it was an attempt to get to her. He had used her to keep Shaw before and now he was using Shaw to soften her. It didn’t matter, because whatever her decision was—not that it was hard to decide—he would have Shaw killed in the end.

There was relief flooding Root’s whole being whenever she got on the last step of the stairs and Shaw was still in her cell, instead of being strapped into one of the machineries in the torturing chamber. She didn’t know how long she could hang on that little feeling. Genrika hadn’t babbled as much as she used to and she tried not to be concerned over it as well. The princess would be well again when they got back to Thornhill. They just had to get out of there as soon as possible. Yet every time Root stared at Shaw, questioning, she shook her head.

It remained that way for six long days. Root caught snippets of information. Samaritan had managed to take over her castle before their agent kidnapped Genrika. The war was put on halt since then, but Reese refused to step back from the border and Constable Rousseau was pushing the best of her men to keep dominating the castle.

Root’s companions lessened from four to three and it wouldn’t be long for it to be two. Three was still a bit too much for her, but two she could take. She would make a move then, regardless of Shaw’s silent rejection. Until on the seventh night, she was pushed into the cell.

Shaw perked up when she saw the door secured behind Root and the guards moving away. Her stomach growled as her nostrils caught the whiff of pigeon pie, fresh bread, and wine. “What’s with the feast?” she asked, her voice hoarse from the lack of use.

“It’s your last supper,” Root said. “Harold has agreed to surrender, in exchange for Genrika. She’ll leave tomorrow.”

That explained Root’s presence inside the cell, instead of delivering the food through the bar like she always did. Greer was taunting her or he was giving them the chance to say goodbye. Either way it might be his greatest mistake so far, because Shaw had been waiting for the exchange to happen. It meant soldiers would accompany Greer. It meant they would stay in the barrack to prepare themselves to go. It also meant the palace would be vulnerable from attacks from the inside.

The dim light and the damp smell of the dungeon comforted Root in a twisted way. Tomorrow, once Genrika left and she still hadn’t changed her decision about joining Samaritan, she would be killed. They should try now. Two against three, there was a possibility for them to win. Root said as much to Shaw, but her suggestion was refused because it would put Genrika in danger. Root sighed. She raised her chained arms to touch Shaw’s face, feeling the warmth under her fingertips. She missed doing this. She saw the white of her eyes and a peek of teeth—Shaw was grinning.

Shaw had had this idea for a while, but she hadn’t mulled over it. She was always the kind who did first and thought about the consequences later. Planning for too far ahead was never her strong forte. She only had a vague idea of what she wanted to happen and at the moment, it meant getting Genrika out of Samaritan, at any cost. It was a long shot, but it was worth the try.

She eyed the rings adorning Root’s hand, one particular purplish glint beckoning her. She didn’t know when or how or even _who_ she was going to put it to use, but she knew she needed it and Root wasn’t going to just hand it over if she asked. There would be questions that she didn’t have the time to explain.

So she just kissed Root.

It happened as a blur of motion in the darkness of the cell. Shaw stepped forward; Root stepped backward until her back hit the wall. Her hands were over Shaw’s collarbone when Shaw craned her neck and crashed their lips together. Shaw took hold of them, sighing into the kiss. Root smelt nice again and there was a leftover taste of wine on her lips. She didn’t want it to end—it might indeed be their goodbye—but footsteps were coming closer and they had to part before they got caught.

The guard opened the door, motioning for Root and she stumbled out in daze. The other guard locked it back up. It wasn’t until they grabbed her forearms to lead her away that she noticed something was missing—her poison ring. She leaped forward, hands grabbing on the rusty metal bar. The chain around secured around her wrists slammed and rattled against it. The guards tried to pull her back, but she fought against them.

“Sameen, if you even think I’m gonna let you—“

“For God’s sake.” Shaw huffed, rolling her eyes. “Someone’s gotta stay and hold them off.”

Of course Root would assume the worse—that Shaw would kill herself, which she might. It was a possibility. Wars required sacrifices, Root had said it herself, and Shaw would rather kill herself than being used as a pawn against Thornhill.

“Find the ship with black lion on its flag,” Shaw said. “They’ll help you.”

For the first time in days, Root trashed against the guards. Her fist caught one of them, a satisfying crack of his nose reverberated through her knuckles. They would be bruised, but she couldn’t care less. She elbowed him for a good measure. While her attention was on him, the other guard had sneaked behind her and hit the back of her head. Shaw was the last thing she saw before the world went black.

 

* * *

 

Shaw lingered on the door, watching the unharmed guards dragged Root back upstairs. Once they were gone, she turned her attention to the one left behind. He was leaning on the wall, both hands hovered near his face but he was quite lost of what to do with his bleeding nose. Shaw thought she had to wait or do more at first, perhaps batting her eyelashes or flashing her breasts, but Root’s little stunt had created a perfect opening for her.

“Hey, you, the one with the crooked nose,” she said. “Need help straightenin’ it out?”

He stared at her for a long while, trying to decide whether to take her offer or not. She didn’t prod further, even though she could tell him that he would run out of blood to scare him off. She didn’t want to seem too eager when he was already wary of her. In the end, he nodded and walked up until he was standing in front of the cell.

He kept the distance, only enough for her hand to reach his nose. If he had stood any closer, she could grab him, smash his head against the door, and then use her arms to snap his neck. Alas, she had to work with what she had. Pinching his nose, she twisted her wrist and aligned the bone back. He groaned in pain, wiping the remains of blood from his face.

“Thanks,” he said.

His voice sounded nasal, but he was grinning. His bloody fingers tucked away the black locks that had fallen over his face. He couldn’t be older than Clarke and Shaw almost felt bad for what she was going to do to him. _Almost_. She smiled back, turning around to take the glass filled with wine. She pushed down the amethyst on Root’s ring, activating the mechanism for the secret compartment to open up and let the yellowish powder fell into the cup. She took it up, swishing the liquid once before offering it through the bar.

“Drink with me, soldier.”

It was a good wine—the kind that was imported and served only for nobilities—and an actual lady slash constable was offering it to him. It was once in a lifetime happening. His long-dead father would rise from his grave and beat him up if he turned it down. He would be a total fool to deny, so he didn’t. He savored the sweet wine with a healthy gulp and handed it back to Shaw.

“She’s a feisty one, isn’t she?” Shaw asked, gesturing at the state of his face so he knew who she was talking about.

He nodded. There was a flush on his cheeks and warmth on his chest, from the drink and from the embarrassing way he had gulped it, while Shaw only took a sip. It was his first time tasting that kind of wine and he had no idea how to act all prim and proper in front of a lady, but that changed now. When it was his turn, he sipped the wine, much to Shaw’s disappointment.

“Gotta contain her in a cage, or she’ll sneak her way out like a snake.”

He chuckled. “She’s been behavin’ okay... Put her back in the guest room with the princess.”

It was all Shaw needed to hear. Every time the cup passed to her, she faked taking a sip from it. The wine only wetted her upper lip. The guard—she never bothered to ask for his name—had the honor of finishing it off. Right when he tipped up the glass, trying to catch the last drop of the wine, her lip tingled. Her smile widened.

Buzzed from the drink, he smiled back as he handed Shaw the empty hardwood cup. It fell off his grasp before it even reached the door. Brows scrunched in confusion, he looked up at her. He tried to speak, but his tongue was heavy like lead in his mouth. All of a sudden, a strong bout of nausea hit him. He clutched on the door in a desperate attempt to keep himself up as he dry-heaved, but his grip slipped off. He toppled over and started convulsing.

Shaw didn’t waste any time. She crouched down and reached for his jerking body, trying to find anything she could use to open the padlock. He didn’t have the key with him, but he had a small knife. She used its tip to bust the lock through the keyhole. He was still shaking on the ground when she opened the door. She took his sword, turned him around to lie on his back, and held it above his heaving chest.

“Sorry about this,” Shaw said.

She delivered a stab right through his heart. Being murdered by an enemy was a more honorable death for a soldier than being killed by poison. Blood pooled under him and his body stopped twitching, falling limp around the sword. She searched for anything else on his person that she could use, but found nothing and set for the sword and knife.

Saving Root and Genrika was her first priority, but she had to make a couple of stops along the way. The armory was her first destination and then the throne room. Samaritan’s Coat of Arms was always a bit too red for her, so she helped burning it down for them.

 

* * *

 

Root woke up with a start. She jolted from her lying position before the pain caught up with her and she hissed. Rubbing the back of her head, she took in her surroundings. She was back in the room and Genrika was beside her, staring up at her with sleepy but worried eyes.

“I’m okay,” Root said.

Her legs trembled when she stood up, but there was no time to be weak. With several shaky steps, she made it to the balcony. She looked up at the sky and saw the moon hanging high. The candles lighting up the room were new, too. So it must be about midnight. Some time had passed since she left the dungeon—since Shaw stole her poison ring. Root was sure Greer wouldn’t have Shaw executed until his plan succeeded, but she was not going to wait and see. One last look at the pale moon and she moved back to the bed, towering over Genrika. It was about time for the guards to do their round and it was perfect.

“Sorry, Gen, no more sleeping tonight.” Root scooped Genrika up and set her on the chair. She wiggled, the beginning of a cry ripped through her throat but Root’s next words quieted her down. “We have to save Sam now.”

After a lot of tugging and pulling, Root managed to get the sheets and curtains piled up against the door. She ripped a strip off the sheet and wetted it with melted snow—one for Genrika and one for herself. She instructed her to hide behind the dresser on the far end of the room and cover her nose and mouth once the smoke started.

Root then went to crouch beside the door, ear pressed against its surface. She had smashed the chair and used one of its wooden legs as a makeshift bat. Her free hand was holding on a burning candle. She tipped it to the side so its melted wax dripped onto the stack of fabrics. The moment her ear picked up the noise of measured footsteps coming from the far end of the long hallway, she lowered the candle to the edge of the pile. It didn’t take long for the small fire to grow into a burning flame.

Root stood up, but didn’t move away. She pressed the damp cloth against the lower half of her face and waited. Beads of sweat began crowning her forehead due to her nearness with the fire. Smoke crawled from beneath the door and the footsteps rushed in alarm. The bar securing the door came undone. The door unlocked and pushed open, shoving the burning sheets and curtains aside. And Root swung the bat onto the unsuspecting guard.

The ornate wood smashed the man right on the middle of his face, blood splattered from his broken nose. He fell face-first onto the hot floor with a groan, just as Root discarded her makeshift weapon and damp cloth. Still in shock, his fellow guard tried to reach for him, but Root had stepped in to intercept him. He didn’t have the time to unsheathe his sword; the heel of her palm had met his chin first. He stumbled back, dazed and in pain. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth, flowing out from his bitten tongue. She placed a hand on his chest and rammed him back until his skull hit the wall across the hall several times until he lost consciousness.

The smoke and ruckus had drawn unwanted attention. That or something else had happened because Root heard shouts echoed through the corridors. Whatever it was, she wasn’t going to waste the opportunity. She took the unconscious guard’s Samaritan-issued sword and attached its sheath on her belt. She prepared herself to fend off whoever coming her way as quick as possible. After all, Genrika was still inside the room and they still had to go down to the dungeon to fetch Shaw.

However, her determination faltered a bit when instead of more guards; it was a girl who rushed down the hall. The girl came to a stop a few steps away from her, a cloak wrapped around her thin frame and hair mussed. She looked past Root, trying to spot Genrika. After a closer inspection, Root recognized her. They hadn’t had a proper introduction or even talked with each other before, but she knew the girl was Genrika’s Maid of Honor. It seemed like she got tangled in Greer’s trap as well.

“You’re Claire, right?”

At once, Claire’s eyes snapped up to Root. Her worry dissipated, a frown took its place on her face. Root offered a smile, assuming that Claire was just wary of her.

“It’s alright. I’m here with Gen,” Root said. She sheathed the sword to put Claire at ease. Her knuckles were swollen after the punch she delivered earlier and the weapon was heavier than her usual dagger, she couldn’t hold it up for too long anyway. “We should get out—“

Root didn’t see the attack coming. Claire lunged forward, closing their proximity within a couple of rushed strides. She had a knife on her hand and Root raised her arm to block it. It stopped her from getting stabbed, but she suffered a long gash on her forearm.

“You killed my family!”

The cry took Root aback. Her brows furrowed in confusion as she stared at Claire, whose knife was dripping with her blood. She had killed a lot of people, but she was sure she never met this girl before. The abhorrence she saw in her eyes was genuine, though. It terrified her to see someone so young having so much hatred and worse, it was directed at her.

“You killed my entire village!”

Then it all downed on Root. Before the Great War happened, Thornhill’s justiciar, to avoid war with Samaritan, had promised gold to someone with the skills, resources, and moral depravity to obliterate their village of blacksmiths. And that someone was Root. The dropwort she poured into their well. The villagers who met their ends on the sharp edges of her daggers. The little girl she had spared.

“I—”

Claire didn’t wait Root to finish what must be an apology. She charged forward again, but Root sidestepped her this time. She grabbed her outstretched arm and pulled it down on the same time her free hand grasped at her neck. With a step to the side, Root had her pinned on the wall. Claire kicked and clawed, but Root took it all. She squeezed harder until Claire passed out from the lack of air, then she lowered her to the floor. She was alive and breathing still.

Once Root was sure Claire wouldn’t get up anytime soon, she did a cursory check on the wound on her arm. She let it bleed some more before wrapping it tight with her ripped sleeve. She could only hope that Claire hadn’t picked up her penchant on using poison. She had no time to be bothered about it, though.

She darted back into the room for Genrika. The fire had caught on the dry strewing herbs on the floor and was spreading throughout the room in an alarming pace. She snatched her up right before it could lick the hem of her dress and wrapped her in her cape. She kept her head pressed against the crook of her neck so she didn’t see Claire as they made their way out.

The hallway was deserted and the screams and yells still coming from somewhere else. Root rounded the corner and was halfway down the hall when she saw the guard on the other end.

“Hey!”

The guard marched forward in an alarming speed, sword drawn and ready to fight. Root looked around, but found no place for Genrika to hide without being too far from her. They couldn’t turn around because it led them right to the Great Hall, where there were more guards. She had to put Genrika down.

“Stay here, don’t move.”

Genrika’s eyes were wide with fear. She backed up to the wall, snuggling into Root’s cape. She was getting better at following simple command, which Root was thankful for because she couldn’t deal with tears at the moment. She was quick to walk away, keeping a good distance between Genrika and herself to avoid getting her caught in the fight. She glanced at her from the corner of her eyes. Assured that she had stayed put, Root drew her sword. The weight strained her bruised hand and she couldn’t use her left hand due to the fresh wound Claire had left, but she wasn’t in the position to complain.

The guard had stopped a couple of steps away. Before he could take a swing at Root, a hand landed on his shoulder and pulled his body back. A fist hit his jaw at the same time the sword knocked out of his hand. It fell to the floor with a clank. He didn’t have the chance to retrieve it because a strong arm had wrapped itself around his neck from behind. He clawed at it, but to no avail. His face turned blue and when his fight weakened, a knife slit his throat.

Shaw dropped and kicked his limp body out of the way. “Sorry about the blood spray.”

“Looks like someone crawled out of the dungeon.” Root wiped the smudge of blood from Shaw’s cheek with her thumb. With more light available, she saw her clearer. Her skin was pasty and the bones prominent on her cheeks, but she was alive and that was good enough for Root. “I knew you’d come back for me.” She put on a brave smile, but the wavering in her voice didn’t fool anyone. “Admit it, you were worried about me.”

Shaw rolled her eyes, but took hold of Root’s hand. “I’m worried about Gen.” She lowered their hands so Root’s palm pressed on top of her heart, feeling the quick heartbeats thumping underneath and assuring that they were both alive. There was something soft, like a bundle of fabric that muted the beats, though. Shaw let go off Root’s hand before she could discern what it was. “Reese will try to stop Harold, but that won’t matter if Samaritan still has her.”

“Then let’s get her out of here.”

Root motioned at where Genrika was waiting, curling to herself with head ducked under the cape. She wasn’t aware of Shaw’s presence. Thus when Shaw came to crouch in front of her and nudged her chin up, she retaliated and swatted the hand away. Instead of feeling hurt from the rejection, Shaw had a proud smirk curling her lips.

“Hey, princess.”

Genrika peeked from under the cloak and her eyes widened in joy. “Sam!” She giggled as she threw her arms around Shaw, but the embrace didn’t last long. She stepped away, nose scrunched in disgust and eyes narrowed in accusation. “Smelly!” she said, dragging on the ‘m’.

It had been weeks since the last time Shaw washed, so she smelt as awful as she looked. “Oh, no.” She scooped Genrika up into her arms. The little girl squealed, small hands pushing her away with no success. “You ready to get out of here?”

“Mm-mmh.”

It was a beautiful sight, Shaw with Gen. Root could watch them for eternity, if the fire she started hadn’t spread down the hall and they didn’t have to run for their lives. She regretted breaking the moment, but Shaw made it all better when she showed her the weapons she had strapped on her belt. It was Root’s long daggers.

“Have you seen the ship yet?” Shaw asked, exchanging the daggers with the sword Root had taken from the guard earlier.

Root shrugged. Her smile turned a bit sheepish. “I forgot about it.”

Shaw rolled her eyes and handed Genrika to Root. She tried to open the next door they encountered, right when it swung open. A man on the other side had his eyes widened for a fraction of a second, before he reached for his sword. Shaw punched the light out of him before he could draw it out. She walked further into the room, Root following behind her. She saw another man on the bed and smirked at his obvious state of undress under the sheets.

“Don’t.”

He was wise enough to not reach for the sword leaning on the wall beside the bed, although it might have something to do with the sharp dagger Root was pointing at his crotch. The room had no balcony, but the window was wide enough for Shaw to stick her head out. A particular cold wind smacked her face while she looked out, trying to find the familiar flag of a ship in the darkness of the night. After a lot of squinting, she saw it far from the port and cussed under her breath.

“Looks like we gotta make a run for it.”

 

* * *

 

The situation escalated into chaotic in a blink of an eye. About a hundred or so palace workers, not including the guards, ran amuck in the face of not one, but _two_ sources of fire. Their presence among the panicked crowd was ignored at large. Many soldiers had come over from the barrack, but they were more concerned with putting off the spreading fire than a couple of political prisoners making an escape.

Once they burst out of the back entrance, it changed. They stood out because they were running away from the building, instead to it like everyone else did. Some soldiers bothered to step in and try to stop them, only to meet the sharp edges of Root’s daggers. Amidst the chaos, neither of them was willing to leave the other behind. Root had transferred Genrika back to Shaw, to assure that she wouldn’t fall behind. In return, Shaw made a show of tossing her sword out of the window, so Root had to tag along to protect them.

The pier was wide. Their steps thumped loud against the wooden planks. There were a caravel, a balinger, and a couple of hoys harbored, but the place was deserted of people. They were looking for a smaller boat when Shaw heard something hissing through the air in high speed. She only had the chance to warn Root, tackling her down so all three of them piling together, but an arrow had managed to embed itself through her arm.

Genrika’s cry broke through the silence and then more arrows were raining on them. They scrambled back on their feet, hiding behind the shadow of the balinger. Root sneaked a peek to locate their attacker and saw the couple of guards on top of the gate. Another arrow flew by, almost catching her nose in the process.

“We need to get out of their range.”

A lone fishing boat on the edge of the pier, hidden beside the hoys, caught Shaw’s eyes. “That one might work,” she said, nudging her head onto its direction.

They exchanged a look and when Root nodded, they dashed toward the boat. Only one arrow managed to graze the side of Root’s calf, otherwise they remained unharmed as they leaped into the boat. Root undid the rope securing it to the pier while Shaw took the paddles, ready to get them out of there despite the injury on her arm and Genrika sobbing against her chest. Root snatched one of the paddles and gave a pointed stare at the bloody tip of the arrow that was sticking out of Shaw’s forearm. Some more whistled past them—the longbow men had moved closer, perching on top of the wall that surrounded the palace—and Shaw relented.

Together, they paddled the boat away from the port. In a comical way, their messed up sense of coordination saved them from catching more arrows as it missed them and fell into the water instead. The air was much colder and harsher the farther they got from the land. Root’s old wound ached from the cold, even though she felt warm, and she continued on. Their movement synchronized after a few more paddling and soon the boat gained speed, closing in to the humongous balinger with the black lion flag on top of its mast.

They slowed down once they were near the large vessel. _Lion of the Sea_ painted on the side of its front hull and there was a rope ladder hanging on its side, as if it was waiting for them. They maneuvered the boat to align with the ship, but it was a bumpy affair. Genrika whined out of exhaustion when Shaw handed her to Root.

“You go first,” Shaw said.

Root secured Genrika’s arms around her neck and put an arm under her butt to support her weight. She gripped on the rope with her free hand and got on the steps. On the third one, she lost her footing and almost slipped off the ladder when a particular big wave tilted the ship to one side.

After a lot of struggling, she managed to get to the top and climbed over the edge. She had never been on a sailing ship before, but she was grateful when her booted feet landed on the solid deck. That was until another wave rocked the vessel and she almost got thrown overboard if not for her hand gripping on the edge of the deck. Genrika stared up at her with sleepy apprehension and she gave her a sheepish grin.

Her relief was short-lived, though. Because when she looked up, there were at least a dozen men surrounding them. She didn’t know how come they were up, but it was the least of her concern. Since Shaw was the one directing them to the ship, Root had assumed that it belonged to Thornhill. But now, looking at the racial mixture of the crowd around her—most of them looked a lot like her steward, Daizo, who came from some islands on the Far East—she realized that her assumption was very wrong.

The men had such scruffy, menacing look that became clearer as they stepped closer. Root’s arm tightened around Genrika. She had no chance trying to fight them on _their_ ship. So she tried the more diplomatic approach—greeting them in the way her steward always did at nights and hoping that it was the correct language.

“Uh, _konbanwa_?”

The men stopped their advance and burst out laughing on Root’s face. She grimaced along with the raucous noise.

“Well, well...” The group parted, revealing a man with an open dark blue fearnought draped over his tunic and a woolen cap on his head. Judging from his attire, he was the captain of the ship. “What do we have here?” He eyed Root and the bundle on her arm, Genrika’s golden curls peeking out from under the cape she was wrapped in. “Don’t you know that women bring bad luck on ship? And a kid, really?”

Root wanted to check if Shaw would join in any time soon, or if she needed help climbing—an arrow was jutting out of her arm after all—but she couldn’t. With Genrika clinging on her front, she wouldn’t chance turning her attention away from the men. Lucky for her, she heard the thump of boots landing on the deck and Shaw was standing next to her.

“Cut the crap, Leon,” Shaw said, panting.

“And that’s the one broad I thought I’ll never wanna see again,” the captain, Leon, said with uneasy grin. “She’s here, let’s get this ship movin’!” And with that command, the men dispersed to get the anchor and sails up.

“I told you to wait on the port.”

“Ran outta goods to sell, gotta leave before it freeze over,” Leon said. “You’re lucky winter isn’t so harsh this year. You never told me how long I should wait.”

“Honestly?” Shaw smirked. She had asked him to be on Samaritan on a whim, knowing that unlike any of her ship, his wouldn’t raise any suspicion. “I didn’t know either.”

Leon huffed, having suspected the same thing. He glanced at the arm Shaw was clutching and motioned them to follow him to the stern, where the Great Cabin was located. He was decent enough to hold the door open for them.

There were maps and unfinished drinks on the table. The bed was unmade. Leon told Root that Genrika could use it, since it was the only bed on the ship and there was no way he was going to let any woman staying in the crews’ sleeping quarters. Genrika, now awake and aware of the swaying of the ship, remained sitting on the bed. She also refused to part from Root’s cape.

Root thanked Leon when he gave her a roll of wool to wrap her wounds with. She settled on a chair to work on her left arm first. “A constable and an infamous pirate made an odd match,” she said, looking at Shaw then at Leon.

“He stole from some foreign nation and fled to our water territory to escape them,” Shaw said, dropping on one of the chairs by the table.

“She almost got me beheaded!” Leon turned his head sideways and tugged down his collar to expose the mark on the skin. “Look at this scar on my neck.”

Shaw chuckled. “You’re a pirate, Leon.”

“I’m a respectable merchant,” he said with an indignant huff. “I’m not a criminal.”

Shaw only raised her brow at the statement. “Uh, Leon, I’m gonna need some things,” she said as she checked on the state of her arm. With the sleeve covering it, she couldn’t see much, but the pain was burning and she could tell that it was pretty bad. “Your strongest liquor.”

Leon swept a hand at the leftover drinks on the table with flourish. Shaw took an experimental swig of it, grimacing at the strong taste burning all the way down from her throat to her chest. She was going to need all the alcohol she could get. At least that one was covered.

“More bandage, and if—“ she took out the knife she had taken from the guard earlier and started ripping off her sleeve, but it wouldn’t came off from around the arrow “—there’s no wood plank to bite on, then a towel.”

“Also a branding iron,” Root said. Hot oil would do better for cauterizing, but it would also be too messy to use in a moving ship. She already felt nauseated from all the constant swaying. She saw the frown Shaw was giving her and smiled back at her. “Just in case. You don’t happen to have some belladonna, do you?” she asked Leon, who was retrieving the required items from the drawers and shelves around the room. He shook his head. “Or if you have the gall of a gilt, hemlock juice, wild neep, lettuce, opium, henbane, and eysyl.” At the questioning looks she got, she added, “So I can make dwale.”

“You’re not putting me to sleep,” Shaw said with finality.

“I look like a physician to you?” Leon dropped the towel, branding iron, and a couple rolls of white wool on the table. “Man... I so don’t get paid enough for this crap.”

“I don’t pay you anything, Leon.”

Leon smirked, challenging. “You did.”

“You conduct business with a pirate?” Root asked, having dragged another chair to sit behind Shaw. She turned to look at Leon. “How about honey?”

Leon didn’t bother to correct her this time. “I deliver the best kind of silk for Lady Shaw here.” He took two jars and placed them in front of Root—the smaller one contained opium juice and the bigger one filled with honey.

Shaw made a face as she dipped her forefinger into the opium jar and licked off the bitter liquid. She didn’t want to take too much and knock herself out to the afterlife. “We have an understanding.” She let Root finish cutting off her sleeve to get better access to the wound. “Harold doesn’t need to know.”

Standing close to Shaw, Leon took a sniff then scrunched his nose. “I’m gonna widen the distance, ladies.” He darted to where Genrika was and offered to pick her up, which to everyone’s surprise, she let him do. None of them wanted her to be present while Root tended to Shaw’s wound. At Root, he said, “You take your chances.” Then he left, snickering.

“Everybody’s a critic today.” Shaw rolled her eyes. “Let’s just get this arrow out so I can wash.”

Root was careful as she took off the arrowhead, the beeswax keeping it in place already loosened from the blood. Shaw was lucky it was a bodkin point—a broadhead would have her bone shattered, but then again, it was too expensive for gate guards to use. She waited until Shaw was biting on the rolled towel before she poured the drink over the wounds and twisted the arrow shaft. Despite Shaw’s muffled groan, it went around without hindrance, indicating that it hadn’t caught on her bone. Root sighed in relief. It was just like the old injury Hersh had left on her arm, but less severe. She could only hope the branding iron wouldn’t be needed.

Then came the hardest part: pulling the shaft out.

“I really don’t want to hurt you,” Root said. She had taken off Shaw’s belt and secured it around her arm, just above the injury, to staunch off the possible bleeding once the shaft was out. “Are you sure you didn’t want to take more of the opium?”

Shaw shook her head, saying something that sounded like “just get it over with”.

She felt every part of the shaft being drawn out of her flesh. It came out with a sick squelching noise and she was breathing hard when it was over. The pain made her lightheaded and she knew she was about to pass out. Root had wanted to pour the liquor through the wound, but it wouldn’t stop bleeding. She opted to just run it over the openings and reached for the branding iron. She held it over the burning oil lamp on the desk until it glow dull red and moved to kneel between Shaw’s legs, her free hand holding her arm in place. She looked up at Shaw first, hesitated.

Shaw spat out the towel. “It’s okay,” she said, her voice hoarse. She leaned her head on the back of the chair. Every once in a while, her body trembled from all the pain it had to endure. “I kinda enjoy this sort of thing.” Her pupils were blown, but her grin was roughish.

“I’m so glad you said that.” Root smiled, tilting the iron closer to Shaw’s arm. “I do too.”

Without warning, she pressed it onto the front wound and Shaw screamed around the smell of burned skin. She blacked out from the pain. When she came back to her senses, both of her wounds were sealed and Root already removed the belt from her arm. She had moved back her chair so she was sitting behind her and was in the process of slathering Shaw’s burn with a mixture of honey and opium.

“There, as good as new.” Root made a good work on bandaging Shaw’s arm. Her hands were warm and clammy against Shaw’s skin. “I guess we’re a...match...now...” She continued on, mumbling words Shaw couldn’t discern before she went silent.

“Root?”

The noise of something heavy dropped on the wooden floor filled the room. Shaw turned around to see that Root had fallen off from her chair. She crouched on her side right away and turned her to lie on her back. Root’s lips were pale. She tried to say something, but her tongue felt thick and uncooperative. To Shaw’s horror, Root’s eyes rolled to the back of her head, leaving only the whites to be seen. In the next second, her whole body started convulsing.

“Root!”


End file.
